/ /

John McCutcheon
and

Carmen Agra Deedy

~7

M

EDWARDS’S EDITION OF

THE

CASTLE OF OTRANTO.

THE CASTLE

OF OTRANTO,

A

GOTHIC STORY.

TRANSLATED

B Y

WILLIAM MARSHAL, GENT.

FROM THE ORIGINAL ITALIAN

OF ONUPHRXO MURALTO ,

CANON OF THE CHURCH OF ST. NICHOLAS

AT OTRANTO.

. r . : ' .

THE SIXTH EDITION.

' PARMA.

PRINTED BY BODONI , FOR

J. EDWARDS , BOOKSELLER OF LONDON.

MDCCXCI .

. Van&e

Fincjentur species , tamen ut pcs , et caput uni

RecLdantur forntue .

Hor.

*

TO THE HONOURABLE

Ft-

3157

l^JLCSsr

/??/

$cmt&

AND INGENIOUS AUTHOR

OF THE

CASTLE OF OTRANTO.

T^liou sweet Enchanter! at whose Nod
The airy Train of Phantoms rise

Who dost but wave thy potent Rod,

And Marble bleeds, and Canvas sighs

By thee decoy’d with curious fear

We tread thy Castle’s dreary Round:,

Tho horrid all we see and hear ,

Thy Horrors charm while they confound .

Full well hast thou pursued the Road,

The Magic Road thy Master laid ,

And hast with gratefull skill , bestow’d
An off’ring worthy of his shade .

Again his Manners he may trace ,

Again his Characters may see ,

In soft Matild, Miranda’s Grace
And his own Prospero in thee .

G. Birch .

♦

/

PREFACE

TO THE

FIRST EDITION.

T he following work was found
in the library of an ancient Ca¬
tholic family in the north of En¬
gland. It was printed at Naples ,
in the black letter, in the year
1529. How much sooner it was
written does not appear. The
principal incidents are such as
were believed in the darkest ages
of Christianity; but the language

and conduct have nothing that
savours of barbarism. The stile
is the purest Italian. If the story
was written near the time when
it is supposed to have happened,
it must have been between 1096,
the asra of the first crusade, and
124.3, the date of the last, or not
long afterwards . There is no
other circumstance in the work,
that can lead us to guess at the pe¬
riod in which the scene is laid : the
names of the actors are evident¬
ly fictitious, and probably disguis¬
ed on purpose; yet the Spanish
names of the domestics seem to
indicate that this work was not
composed , until the establish¬
ment of the Arragonian Kings in

Naples had made Spanish appel-

DS!

Ill

lations familiar in that country.
The beauty of the diction, and
the zeal of the author (moderat¬
ed, however by singular judg¬
ment) concur to make me think
that the date of the composition
was little antecedent to that of
the impression . Letters were then
in their most flourishing state in
Italy , and contributed to dispel
the empire of superstition, at that
time so forcibly attacked by the
reformers. It is not unlikely that
an artful priest might endeavour
to turn "their own arms on the in¬
novators ; and might avail himself
of his abilities as an author to
confirm the populace in their an¬
cient errors and superstitions . If
this was his view , he has certain-

ly acted with signal address . Such
a work as the following would
enslave a hundred vulgar minds
beyond half the books of Contro¬
versy that have been written from
the days of Luther to the present
hour.

This solution of the author’s
motives is however offered as a
mere conjecture . Whatever his
views were , or whatever effects
the execution of them might have,
his work can only he laid be¬
fore the public at present as a
matter of entertainment . Even
as such, some apology for it is
necessary . Miracles , visions , ne¬
cromancy , dreams , and other
preternatural events, are explo¬
ded now even from romances.

That was not the case when our
author wrote; much less when
the story itself is supposed to have
happened. Belief in every kind
of prodigy was so established in
those dark ages, that an author
would not be faithful to the man¬
ners of the times, who should o-
mit all mention of them . He is
not bound to believe them him¬
self, but he must represent his
actors as believing them.

If this air of the miraculous
is excused, the reader will find
nothing else unworthy of his
perusal. Allow the possibility of
the facts, and all the actors com¬
port themselves as persons would
do in their situation . There is no
bombast, no similies, flowers, di-

VI

gressions , or unnecessary descrip¬
tions . Every thing tends directly
to the catastrophe. Never is the
reader’s attention relaxed. The
rules of the drama are almost ob¬
served throughout the conduct
of the piece . The characters are
well drawn , and still better
maintained. Terror, the author’s
principal engine , prevents the
story from ever languishing; and
it is so often contrasted by pity ,
that the mind is kept up in a con¬
stant vicissitude of interesting
passions. J'

Some persons may perhaps
think the characters of the do¬
mestics too little serious for the
general cast of the story ; but be¬
sides their opposition to the prin-

Y 1 1

cipal personages, the art of the
author is very observable in his
conduct of the subalterns . They
discover many passages essential
to the story , which could not be
well brought to light but by their
naivete and simplicity: In parti¬
cular, the womanish terror and
foibles of Bianca, in the last chap¬
ter, conduce essentially towards
advancing the catastrophe.

It is natural for a translator to
be prejudiced in favour of his ad¬
opted work. More impartial read¬
ers may not be so much struck
with the beauties of this piece as
I was. Yet I am not blind to my
author’s defects . I could wish he
had grounded his plan on a more
useful moral than this; that the

VIII

sins of fathers are visited on their
children to the third and fourth
generation. I doubt Whether, in
his time, any more than at pre¬
sent, ambition curbed its appe¬
tite of dominion from the dread of
so remote a punishment . And yet
this moral is weakened by that
less direct insinuation, that even
such anathema may be diverted
by devotion to St. Nicholas. Here
the interest of the Monk plain¬
ly gets the better of the judg¬
ment of the author. However,
with all its faults , I have no doubt
but the English reader will
be pleased with a sight of this
performance . The piety that re¬
igns throughout, the lessons of
virtue that are inculcated, and

the rigid purity of the sentiments ,
exempt this work from the cen¬
sure to which romances are but
too liable . ShoulcJ it meet with
the success I hope for, I may be
encouraged to re-print the origi¬
nal Italian, though it will tend
to depreciate my own labour.
Our language falls far short of
the charms of the Italian , both
for variety and harmony . The
latter is peculiarly excellent for
simple narrative. It is difficult in
English to relate without falling
too low or rising too high; a
fault obviously occasioned by the
little care taken to speak pure
language in common conversa¬
tion . Every Italian or Frenchman
of any rank piques himself on

speaking his own tongue correct¬
ly and with choice . I cannot
flatter myself with having done
justice to my author in this res¬
pect : his stile is as elegant , as his
conduct of the passions is mas¬
terly. It is pity that he did not
apply his talents to what they
were evidently proper for, the
theatre .

I will detain the reader no lon¬
ger , but to make one short re¬
mark . Though the machinery is
invention, and the names of the
actors imaginary , I cannot but be¬
lieve , that the ground-work of
the story is founded on truth.
The scene is undoubtedly laid
in some real castle . The author
seems frequently, without design.

X I

to describe particular parts. The
chamber, says he, on the right-
hand ; the door on the left-hand ;
the distance from the chapel to
Conrad’s apartment: These and
other passages are strong pre¬
sumptions that the author had
some certain building in his eye.
Curious persons , who have leisu¬
re to employ in such researches ,
may possibly discover in the Ita¬
lian writers the foundation on
which our author has built. If
a catastrophe, at all resembling
that which he describes , is belie¬
ved to have given rise to this
work , it will contribute to inte¬
rest the reader, and will make
the Castle of Otranto a still mo¬
re moving story.

t

XIII

SONNET

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

LADY

MARY COKE.

TThe gentle Maid, whose hapless tale
These melancholy pages speak;

Say, gracious Lady, shall she fail
To draw the tear adown thy cheek?

No; never was thy pitying breast
Insensible to human woes;

Tender, tho’ firm, it melts distrest
For weaknesses it never knows.

Oh ! guard the marvels I relate
Of fell ambition scourg’d by fate.

From reason’s peevish blame.

Blest with thy smile, my dauntless sail
I dare expand to Fancy’s gale.

For sure thy smiles are Fame .

H. W.

PREFACE

TO THE

SECOND EDITION.

T he favourable manner in which
this little piece has been received
by the public, calls upon the
author to explain the grounds
on which he composed it. But
before he opens those motives,
it is fit that he should ask par¬
don of his readers for having of¬
fered his work to them under the
borrowed personage of a trans-

lator. As diffidence of his own
abilities , and the novelty of the
attempt , were his sole induce¬
ments to assume that disguise,
he flatters himself he shall ap¬
pear excuseable . He resigned his
performance to the impartial judg¬
ment of the public; determin¬
ed to let it perish in obscurity,
if disapproved ; nor meaning to
avow such a trifle, unless better
judges should pronounce that he
might own it without a blush .

It was an attempt to blend the .
two kinds of Romance, the an¬
cient and the modern . In the for¬
mer, all was imagination and im¬
probability: in the latter, nature
is always intended to be , and so¬
metimes has been, copied with

XVII

success. Invention has not been
wanting ; but the great resources
of fancy have been dammed up ,
by a strict adherence to common
life . But if in the latter species
Nature has cramped imagination,
she did but take her revenge , ha¬
ving been totally excluded from
old Romances . The actions , sen¬
timents , conversations , of the
heroes and heroines of ancient
days were as unnatural as the
machines employed to put them
in motion.

The author of the following
pages thought it possible to re¬
concile the two kinds. Desirous of
leaving the powers of fancy at
liberty to expatiate through the
boundless realms of invention ,

X V I I I

and thence of creating more in¬
teresting situations , he wished
to conduct the mortal agents in
his drama according to the rules
of probability ; in short , to make
them think, speak and act, as it
might be supposed mere men and
women would do in extraordina¬
ry positions. He had observed,
that in all inspired writings , the
personages under the dispensa¬
tion of miracles and witnesses to
the most stupendous phenomena ,
never lose sight of their human
character: whereas in the pro¬
ductions of romantic story , an
improbable event never fails to
be attended by an absurd dialo¬
gue. The actors seem to lose their
senses , the moment the laws of

X I X

Nature have lost their tone . As
the public have applauded the at¬
tempt , the author must not say
he was entirely unequal to the
task he had undertaken : yet if
the new rout he has struck out
shall have paved a road for men
of brighter talents, he shall own
with pleasure and modesty, that
he was sensible the plan was ca¬
pable of receiving greater embel¬
lishments than his imagination or
conduct of the passions could
bestow on it.

With regard to the deportment
of the domestics, on which I have
touched in the former preface , I
will beg leave to add a few words .
The simplicity of their behaviour,
almost tending to excite smiles,

X X

which at first seem not consonant
to the serious cast of the work ,
appeared to me not only not im¬
proper, but was marked designed¬
ly in that manner . My rule was
Nature . However grave , impor¬
tant , or even melancholy , the
sensations of Princes and heroes
may be, they de not stamp the
same affections on their domes¬
tics : at least the latter do not , or
should not be made to express
their passions in the same digni¬
fied tone . In my humble opinion ,
the contrast between the sublime
of the one and the naivete of the
other, sets the pathetic of the
former in a stronger light . The
very impatience which a reader
feels , while delayed by the coar-

X X I

se pleasantries of vulgar actors
from arriving at the knowledge
of the important catastrophe he
expects , perhaps heightens , cer¬
tainly proves, that he has been
artfully interested in the depend¬
ing event . But I had higher au¬
thority than my own opinion for
this conduct . That great master
of nature, Shakespeare , was the
model I copied . Let me ask if his
tragedies of Hamlet and Julius
Caesar would not lose a conside¬
rable share of their spirit and
wonderful beauties, if the hu¬
mour of the grave-diggers, the
fooleries of Polonius , and the
clumsy jests of the Roman citi¬
zens were omitted, or vested in
heroics ? Is not the eloquence of

X X 1 I

Antony , the nobler and affected-
ly-unaffected oration of Brutus ,
artificially exalted by the rude
bursts of nature from the mouths
of their auditors ? These touches
remind one of the Grecian sculp¬
tor, who to convey the idea of
a Colossus within the dimensions
of a seal , inserted a little boy
measuring his thumb.

No, says Voltaire in his edition
of Corneille , this mixture of buf¬
foonery and solemnity is intole¬
rable - Voltaire is a genius* -

% The following remark is foreign to the present
question,yet excusable in an Englishman^ who is will¬
ing to think that the severe criticisms of so master¬
ly a writer as Voltaire on our immortal countryman,
may have been the effusions of wit and precipita¬
tion, rather than the result of judgment and atten¬
tion. May not the Critic’s skill in the force and po¬
wers of our language have been as incorrect and in-

XXIII

but not of Shakespeare s magnitu¬
de. Without recurring to dispu¬
table authority , I appeal from
Voltaire to himself. I shall not
avail myself of his former en¬
comiums on our mighty poet;
though the French critic has twice
translated the same speech in

competent as his knowledge of our history ? of the
latter his own pen has dropped glaring evidence. In
his Preface to Thomas Corneille’s Earl o£Essex , Mon¬
sieur de Voltaire allows that the truth of history has
heen grossly perverted in that piece. In excuse he
pleads, that when Corneille wrote, the Noblesse of
France were much unread in English story ; hut
now, says the commentator, that they study it,

such misrepresentations would not he suffered - - -

yet forgetting that the period of ignorance is lapsed,
and that it is not very necessary to instruct the
knowing , he undertakes from the overflowing ofhis
own reading to give the Nobility ofhis own coun¬
try a detail of Queen Elizabeth’’ s favourites - of

whom, says he, Robert Dudley was the first, and

the Earl of Leicester the second. - Could one have

believed that it could be necessary to inform Mon¬
sieur de Voltaire himself, that Robert Dudley and.
the Earl of Leicester were the same person ?

XXIV

Hamlet , some years ago in admi¬
ration , latterly in derision ; and I
am sorry to find that his judg¬
ment grows weaker, when it
ought to be farther matured .
But I shall make use of his own
words , delivered on the general
topic of the theatre , when he
was neither thinking to recom¬
mend or decry Shakespeare's prac¬
tice; consequently at a moment
when Voltaire was impartial. In
the preface to his Enfant Prodi¬
gue , that exquisite piece of which
I declare my admiration , and
which, should I live twenty years
longer, I trust I shall never at¬
tempt to ridicule, he has these
words , speaking of Comedy ( but
equally applicable to Tragedy , if

XXV

Tragedy is, as surely it ought to
be, a picture of human life; nor
can I conceive why occasional
pleasantry ought more to be ba¬
nished from the tragic scene, than
pathetic seriousness from the co¬
mic ) On y voit un melange de se-
rieux et de plaisanterie , de comi-
que et de touchant ; souvent me-
me une seule avanture produit
tons ces contrastes . Rien nest si
commun quune maison , dans la-
quelle un pere gronde, une fille
occupee de sa passion pleure ; le
fils se moque des deux, et quel-
ques parens prennent part dififie-
remment a la scene, etc .Nous nin-
ferons pas de-la que toute Comedie
doive avoir des scenes de bouffone-
rie et des scenes attenclrissantes : il

y a beaucoup detres -bonnes pieces
oil il ne regne que de la gay etc ;
d’autres toutes serieuses ; d’autres
melangees : d’autres oil Vattendris-
sement va jusques aux larmes : il
ne faut donner h exclusion a au-
cun genre : et si Von me demandoit ,
quel genre est le meilleur,je repon-
drois , celui qui est le mieuxtraite.
Surely if a Comedy may be toute
serieuse , Tragedy may now and
then , soberly , be indulged in a
smile. Who shall proscribe it?
shall the critic , who in self-de¬
fence declares that no kind ought
to be excluded from Comedy,
give laws to Shakespeare ?

I am aware that the preface
from whence I have quoted the¬
se passages, does not stand in

XXVII

Monsieur de Voltaire s name, but
in that of his editor; yet who
doubts that the editoq: and au¬
thor were the same person? or
where is the editor , who has so
happily possessed himself of his
author’s stile and brilliant ease of
argument? These passages were
indubitably the genuine senti¬
ments of that great writer. In
his epistle to Maffei , prefixed to
his Merope , he delivers almost
the same opinion , though I doubt
with a little irony. I will repeat
his words , and then give my rea¬
son for quoting them. After trans¬
lating a passage in Maffei § Me¬
rope , Monsieur de Voltaire adds ,
Tons ces traits sont naifs : tout y
est convenable a ceux (pie vous in-

A

X X Y I I I

troduisez sur la scene , et aux
moeurs que vous leur donnez .
Ces familiarites naturelles eussent
ete , a ce que je crois , bleu recues
dans Athenes; mais Paris etnotre
parterre veulent une autre espece
de simplicity . I doubt , I say ,
whether there is not a grain of
sneer in this and other passages
of that epistle ; yet the force of
truth is not damaged by being
tinged with ridicule . Mciffei was
to represent a Grecian story : Su¬
rely the Athenians were as com¬
petent judges of Grecian manners
and of the propriety of introdu¬
cing them, as the Parterre of Pa¬
ris. On the contrary, says Voltai¬
re (and I cannot but admire his
reasoning ) there were but ten

XXIX

thousand citizens at Athens , and
Paris has near eight hundred
thousand inhabitants , among
whom one may reckon thirty
thousand judges of dramatic
works . - Indeed ! - but allo¬

wing so numerous a tribunal, I be¬
lieve this is the only instance in
which it was ever pretended that
thirty thousand persons, living
near two thousand years after the
aera in question, were, upon the
mere face of the poll, declared
better judges than the Grecians
themselves of what ought to he
the manners of a Tragedy writ¬
ten on a Grecian story.

I will not enter into a discus¬
sion of the espece tie simplicity ,
which the Parterre of Paris de-

mancls, nor of the shackles with
which the thirty thousand judges
have cramped their poetry, the
chief merit of which , as I gather
from repeated passages in The
New Commentary on Corneille ,
consists in vaulting in spite of
those fetters; a merit which, if
true, would reduce poetry from
the lofty effort of imagination, to
a puerile and most contemptible

labour - dijjiciles nugce with a

witness! I cannot however help
mentioning a couplet, which, to
my English ears , always soun¬
ded as the flattest and most trif¬
ling instance of circumstantial
propriety ; but which Voltaire ,
who has dealt so severely with
nine parts in ten of Corneilles

works , has singled out to defend
in Racine ;

De son appartement cette porte est prochaine 5

Et cette autre conduit dans celui de la Reine .

In English,

To Caesar’.? closet through this door you come ,

And f other leads to the Queen's drawing-™ room .

Unhappy Shakespeare! hadst thou
made Rosencraus inform his com¬
peer, Gaildenstern , of the ichno-
graphy of the palace of Copen¬
hagen , instead of presenting us
with a moral dialogue between
the Prince of Denmark and the
grave-digger , the illuminated pit
of Paris would have been instruc¬
ted a second time to adore thy ta¬
lents .

The result of all I have said , is,
to shelter my own daring under

XXXII

the canon of the brightest genius
this country, at least, has pro¬
duced. I might have pleaded,
that having created a new spe¬
cies of romance , I was at liberty
to lay down what rules I thought
fit for the conduct of it: But I
should be more proud of having
imitated , however faintly , weak¬
ly , and at a distance , so masterly
a pattern, than to enjoy the enti¬
re merit of invention, unless I
could have marked my work with
genius as well as with origina¬
lity . Such as it is, the Public
have honoured it sufficiently ,
whatever rank their suffrages
allot to it.

THE CASTLE

OF

OTRANTO

A

GOTHIC STORY, &c.

CHAPTER I.

J\T ANFREDV Prince of Otranto , had
one son and one daughter: The latter a
most beautiful virgin , aged eighteen ,
was called Matilda. Conrad , the son,
was three years younger , a homely
youth, sickly, and of no promising dis¬
position; yet he was the darling of his
father, who never showed any symp¬
toms of affection to Matilda. Manfred
had contracted a marriage for his son
with the Marquis of Vicenza's daughter.

5

Isabella ; and she had already been de¬
livered by her guardians into the hands
of Manfred , that he might celebrate the
wedding as soon as Conrad's infirm state
of health would permit . Manfred's im¬
patience for this ceremonial was remar¬
ked by his family and neighbours. The
former indeed , apprehending the seve¬
rity of their Prince’s disposition, did not
dare to utter their surmises on this pre¬
cipitation. Hippolita , his wife , an amia¬
ble lady 5 did sometimes venture to re¬
present the danger of marrying their
only son so early , considering his great
youth, and greater infirmities; but she
never received any other answer than
reflections on her own sterility, who had
given him but one heir. His tenants and
subjects were less cautious in their dis¬
courses : They attributed this hasyt
wedding to the Prince’s dread of seeing
accomplished an ancient prophecy ,

5

which was said to have pronounced ,
that the Castle and Lordship of Otran¬
to should pass from the present family ,
whenever the real owner should he grown
too large to inhabit it. It was difficult
to make any sense of this prophecy ; and
still less easy to conceive what it had
to do with the marriage in question.
Yet these mysteries , or contradictions,
did not make the populace adhere the
less to their opinion .

Young Conrad's birth-day was fixed
for his espousals . The company was as¬
sembled in the chapel of the Castle , and
every thing ready for beginning the di¬
vine office, when Conrad himself was
missing . Manfred impatient of the least
delay , and who had not observedhis son
retire, dispatched one of his attendants
to summon the young Prince. The ser¬
vant, who had not staid long enough to
have crossed the court to Conrad's apart-

4

ment, came running back breathless, in
a frantick manner, his eyes staring, and
foaming at the mouth. He said nothing,
but pointed to the court. The company
were struck with terror and amazement.
The Princess Hippolita , without know¬
ing what was the matter, but anxious
for her son, swooned away. Manfred ,
less apprehensive than enraged at the
procrastination of the nuptials, and at
the folly of his domestic , asked impe¬
riously, what was the matter? The fel¬
low made no answer, but continued
pointing towards the court-yard; and at
last, after repeated questions put to
him, cried out. Oh! the helmet! the hel¬
met! In the mean time, some of the com¬
pany had run into the court, from whence
was heard a confused noise of shrieks,
horror, and surprise. Manfred , who
began to be alarmed at not seeing his
son, went himself to get information of

5

what occasioned this strange confusion .
Matilda remained endeavouring to assist
her mother , and Isabella staid for the
same purpose, and to avoid showing
any impatience for the bridegroom , for
whom, in truth, she had conceived lit¬
tle affection .

The first thing that struck Manfred's
eyes was a group of his servants endea¬
vouring to raise something that appea¬
red to him a mountain of sable plu¬
mes. He gazed without believing his
sight. What are ye doing? cried Man¬
fred wrathfully; where is my son? A
volley of voices replied, Oh! My Lord!
the Prince! the Prince! the helmet! the
helmet! Shocked with these lamentable
sounds , and dreading he knew not what;
he advanced hastily, — -but what a sight
for a father’s eyes ! —he beheld his child
dashed to pieces, and almost buried un¬
der an enormous helmet, an hundred

6

times more large than any casque ever
made for human being , and shaded with
a proportionable quantity of black fea¬
thers .

The horror of the spectacle , the igno¬
rance of all around how this misfortune
had happened, and above all, the tre¬
mendous phaenomenon before him , took
away the Prince’s speech. Yet his silen¬
ce lasted longer than even grief could
occasion. He fixed his eyes on what he
wished in vain to believe a vision; and
seemed less attentive to his loss, than
buried in meditation on the stupendous
object that had occasioned it. He tou¬
ched, he examined the fatal casque; nor
could even the bleeding mangled remains
of the young Prince, divert the eyes of
Manfred from the portent before him.
All who had known his partial fondness
for young Conrad , were as much sur¬
prized at their Prince’s insensibility, as

r

thunder- struck themselves at the mira¬
cle of the helmet. They conveyed the
disfigured corpse into the hall, without
receiving the least direction from Man -
frecl . As little was he attentive to the
Ladies who remained in the chapel : On
the contrary, without mentioning the
unhappy Princesses , his wife and daugh¬
ter, the first sounds that dropped from
Manfred' s lips were, take care of the
lady Isabella .

The domestics , without observing
the singularity of this direction, were
guided by their affection to their mis¬
tress , to consider it as peculiarly addres¬
sed to her situation , and flew to her as¬
sistance. They conveyed her to her cham¬
ber more dead than alive, and indiffe¬
rent to all the strange circumstances she
heard, except the death of her son. Ma¬
tilda ^ who doated on her mother, smo¬
thered her own grief and amazement.

8

and thought of nothing but assisting and
comforting her afflicted parent. Isabel -
lav who had been treated by Hippolita
like a daughter, and who returned that
tenderness with equal duty and affec¬
tion, was scarce less assiduous about the
Princess ; at the same time endeavou¬
ring to partake and lessen the weight
of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove
to suppress, for whom she had concei¬
ved the warmest sympathy of friendship.
Yet her own situation could not help
finding its place in her thoughts. She
felt no concern for the death of young
Conrad , except commiseration; and she
was not sorry to be delivered from a
marriage which had promised her little
felicity, either from her destined bride¬
groom, or from the severe temper of
Manfred , who, though he had distin¬
guished her by great indulgence, had
imprinted her mind with terror, from

9

Iris causeless rigour to such amiable Prin¬
cesses as Hippolita and Matilda.

While the Ladies were conveying
the wretched mother to her bed, Man¬
fred remained in the court , gazing on
the ominous casque , and regardless of
the crowd which the strangeness of die
event had now assembled around him .
The few words he articulated , tended
solely to inquiries , whether any man
knew from whence it could have come?
Nobody could give him the least infor¬
mation. However 5 as it seemed to be
the sole object of his curiosity , it soon
became so to the rest of the spectators ,
whose conjectures were as absurd and
improbable , as the catastrophe itself
was unprecedented. In the midst of their
senseless guesses, ayoungpeasant, whom
rumour had drawn thither from a neigh¬
bouring village ? observed that the mira¬
culous helmet was exactly like that on

JO

tlie figure in black marble of Alfonso the
Goocl5 one of their former Princes, in
the church of St. Nicholas . Villain!
What sayest thou! cried Manfred , star¬
ting from his trance in a tempest of ra¬
ge, and seizing the young man by the
collar; how darest thou utter such trea¬
son? thy life shall pay for it. The spec¬
tators, who as little comprehended the
cause of the Prince’s fury as all the rest
they had seen, were at a loss to unra¬
vel this new circumstance . The young
peasant himself was still more astonished,
not conceiving how he had offended the
Prince: Yet recollecting himself, with
a mixture of grace and humility, he dis¬
engaged himself from Manfred's gripe,
and then with an obeisance, which dis¬
covered more jealousy of innocence, than
dismay ;he asked, with respect, of what
he was guilty! Manfred , more enraged
at the vigour , however decently exer-

JJ

ted 5 with which the young man had
shaken off his hold, than appeased by
his submission, ordered his attendants
to seize him, and, if he had not been
withheld by his friends , whom he had
invited to the nuptials , would have poi-
guarded the peasant in their arms .

During this altercation, some of the
vulgar spectators had run to the great
church, which stood near the castle,
and came back open-mouthed, declaring,
that the helmet was missing from Alfon¬
so's statue. Manfred , at this news, grew'
perfectly frantic ; and , as if he sought a
subject on which to vent the tempest
within him, he rushed again on the young
peasant, crying, Villain! Monster! Sor¬
cerer! ’tis thou hast done this ! ’tis thou
hast slain my son! The mob, who wan¬
ted some object within the scope of their
capacities , on whom they might dischar¬
ge their bewildered reasonings , caught

the words from the mouth of their Lord,
and re-echoed, Ay , ay; ’tis he, ’tis he:
He has stolen the helmet from good Al -

o

fonso's tomb, and dashed out the brains
of our young Prince with it,— -never
reflecting how enormous the dispropor¬
tion was between the marble helmet
that had been in the church , and that
of steel before their eyes; nor how im¬
possible it was for a youth seemingly
not twenty, to wield a piece of armour
of so prodigious a weight .

The folly of these ejaculations brou¬
ght Manfred to himself : Yet whether
provoked at the peasant having obser¬
ved the resemblance between the two
helmets, and thereby led to the farther
discovery of the absence of that in the
church; or wishing to bury any such
rumour under so impertinent a suppo¬
sition; he gravely pronounced that the
young man was certainly a necroman-

cer, and that till the church could take
cognizance of the affair, he would have
the Magician, whom they had thus de¬
tected, kept prisoner under the helmet
itself, which he ordered his attendants
to raise, and place the young man under
it; declaring he should be kept there
without food , with which his own in¬
fernal art might furnish him.

It was in vain for the youth to re¬
present against this preposterous senten¬
ce : In vain did Manfred* s friends endea¬
vour to divert him from this savage and
ill-grounded resolution . The generality
were charmed with their Lord’s deci¬
sion, which, to their apprehensions,
carried great appearance of justice, as
the Magician was to be punished by
the very instrument with which he had
offended: Nor were they struck with
the least compunction at the probabili¬
ty of the youth being starved, for they

firmly believed , that , by his diabolic
skill, he could easily supply himself
with nutriment.

Manfred thus saw his commands
even chearfully obeyed^ and appoin¬
ting a guard with strict orders to pre¬
vent any food being conveyed to the
prisoner, he dismissed his friends and
attendants , and retired to his own cham¬
ber, after locking the gates of the cast le,
in which he suffered none but his do¬
mestics to remain.

In the mean time, the care and zeal
of the young Ladies had brought the
YrincessHippolitato herself, who amidst
the transports of her own sorrow, fre¬
quently demanded news of her Lord,
would have dismissed her attendants to
watch over him, and at last enjoined
Matilda to leave her, and visit and
comfort her father. Matilda , who wan¬
ted no affectionate duty to Manfred ,

though she trembled at his austerity,
obeyed the orders of Hippolita , whom
she tenderly recommended to Isabella ;
and enquiring of the domestics for her
father , was informed that he was reti¬
red to his chamber, and had comman¬
ded that nobody should have admittan¬
ce to him . Concluding that he was im¬
mersed in sorrow for the death of her
brother , and fearing to renew his tears
by the sight of his sole remaining child ,
she hesitated whether she should break
in upon his affliction; yet solicitude for
him, backed by the commands of her
mother, encouraged her to venture dis¬
obeying the orders he had given; a fault
she had never been guilty of before.
The gentle timidity of her nature made
her pause for some minutes at his door.
She heard him traverse his chamber
backwards and forwards with disordered
steps; a mood which increased her ap-

j6

prehensions. She was however just going
to beg admittance, when Manfred sud¬
denly opened the door; and as it was
now twilight, concurring with the dis¬
order of his mind, he did not distin¬
guish the person, but asked angrily,
who it was? Matilda replied trembling,
My dearest father, it is I, your daugh¬
ter. Manfred stepping back hastily,
cried. Begone, I do not want a daugh¬
ter; and flinging back abruptly, clapped
the door against the terrified Matilda.

She was too well acquainted with
her father’s impetuosity to venture a
second intrusion . When she had a little
recovered the shock of so bitter a recep¬
tion, she wiped away her tears to pre¬
vent the additional stab that the know¬
ledge of it would give to Hippolita^ who
questionedher in the most anxious terms
on the health of Manfred , and how he
bore his loss . Matilda assured her he

was well 5 and supported his misfortune
with manly fortitude . But will he not
let me see him ? said Hippolita mourn¬
fully; will he not permit me to blend
my tears with his, and shed a mother’s
sorrows in the bosom of her Lord? Or
do you deceive me, Matilda? I know
how Manfred doated on his son : Is not
the stroke too heavy for him? has he
not sunk under it? — You do not ans¬
wer me* — alas! I dread the worst! — -
raise me, my maidens; I will? I will
see my Lord. Bear me to him instantly :
He is dearer to me even than my chil¬
dren. Matilda made signs to Isabella
to prevent Hippolita' s rising; and both
those lovely young women were using
their gentle violence to stop and calm
the Princess, when a servant, on the
part of Manfred , arrived and told /sa-
bella that his Lord demanded to speak
wTith her .

j8

With me! cried Isabella. Go , said
Hippolita , relieved by a message from
her Lord : Manfred cannot support the
sight of his own family. He thinks you
less disordered than we are , and dreads
the shock of my grief . Console him , dear
Isabella , and tell him I will smother
my own anguish rather than add to his.

As it was now evening, the servant,
who conducted Isabella , bore a torch
before her . When they came to Man-
free/, who was walking impatiently about
the gallery, he started, and said hasti¬
ly, Take away that light, and begone.
Then shutting the door impetuously , he
flung himself upon a bench against the
wall, and bad Isabella sit by him. She
obeyed trembling. I sent for you, Lady,
said he, — and then stopped under great
appearance of confusion . My Lord ! —
Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great
moment, resumed he,— dry your tears.

young Lady — you have lost your bri¬
degroom.- — Yes, cruel fate! and I have
lost the hopes of my race! but Conrad
was not worthy of your beauty — How!
my Lord , said Isabella ; sure you do not
suspect me of not feeling the concern I
ought : My duty and affection would
have always — Think no more of him,
interrupted Manfred ; he was a sickly
puny child , and heaven has perhaps
taken him away, that I might not trust
the honours of my house on so frail a
foundation . The line of Manfred calls
for numerous supports. My foolish fond¬
ness for that boy blinded the eyes of
my prudence — but it is better as it is .
I hope, in a few years, to have reason
to rejoice at the death of Conrad .

Words cannot paint the astonish¬
ment of Isabella. At first she apprehen¬
ded that grief had disordered Manfred’s
understanding . Her next thought sug-

gested that this strange discourse was
designed to ensnare her: She feared that
Manfred had perceived her indifference
for his son : And in consequence of that
idea she replied , Good my Lord, do not
doubt my tenderness: My heart would
have accompanied my hand . Conrad
would have engrossed all my care; and
wherever fate shall dispose of me , I
shall always cherish his memory, and
regard your Highness and the virtuous
Hippolita as my parents. Curse on Hip~
polita! cried Manfred: Forget her from
this moment as I do . In short , Lady ,
you have missed a husband undeserving
of your charms : They shall now be bet¬
ter disposed of. Instead of a sickly boy,
you shall have a husband in the prime
of his age, who will know how to value
your beauties, and who may expect a
numerous offspring . Alas ! my Lord ,
said Isabella , my mind is too sadly en-

grossedby the recent catastrophe in your
family to think of another marriage. If
ever my father returns , and it shall be
his pleasure , I shall obey , as I did when
I consented to give my hand to your
son : But until his return , permit me to
remain under your hospitable roof, and
employ the melancholy hours in assua¬
ging yours, Hippolita' s, and the fair
Matildas affliction.

I desired you once before, said Man¬
fred angrily , not to name that woman :
From this hour she must be a stranger
to you, as she must be to me; — in short ,
Isabella , since I cannot give you my
son, I offer you myself. — Heavens! cried
Isabella , waking from her delusion,
what do I hear! You! my Lord! You!
My father-in-law! the father of Conrad !
the husband of the virtuous and tender
Hippolita! — I tell you, said Manfred
imperiously , Hippolita is no longer my

J22

wife; I divorce her from this hour. Too
long has she cursed me by her unfruit¬
fulness. My fate depends on having
sons, — and this night I trust will give
a new date to my hopes . At those words
he seized the cold hand of Isabella , who
was half-dead with fright and horror.
She shrieked and started from him .
Manfred rose to pursue her , when the
moon, which was now up and gleamed
in at the opposite casement, presented
to his sight the plumes of the fatal hel¬
met, which rose to the height of the
windows, waving backwards and for¬
wards in a tempestuous manner , and
accompanied with a hollow and rustling
sound. Isabella , who gathered courage
from her situation , and who dreading
nothing so much as Manfred's pursuit
of his declaration, cried. Look! my
Lord; see, heaven itself declares against
your impious intentions! — Heaven nor

35

hell shall impede my designs, said Man-
fredv advancing again to seize the Prin¬
cess . At that instant the portrait of his
grandfather, which hung over the bench
where they had been sitting, uttered a
deep sigh, and heaved its breast. Isa¬
bella^ whose back was turned to the
picture, saw not the motion, nor knew
whence the sound came, but started,
and said, Hark , my Lord ! What sound
was that? and at the same time made to¬
wards the door. Manfred , distracted
between the flight of Isabella , who had
now reached the stairs, and yet unable
to keep his eyes from the picture which
began to move, had however advanced
some steps after her, still looking back¬
wards on the portrait, when he saw it
quit its pannel, and descend on the floor
with a grave and melancholy air . Do I
dream? cried Manfred , returning; or
are the devils themselves in league a-

gainst me? Speak, infernal spectre! or,
if thou art my grandsire, why dost thou
too conspire against thy wretched de¬
scendant, who too dearly pays for — -
ere he could finish the sentence, the vi¬
sion sighed again, and made a sign to
Manfred to follow him . Lead on ! cried
Manfred ; I will follow thee to the gulph
of perdition . The spectre marched seda¬
tely , but dejected , to the end of the
gallery , and turned into a chamber on
the right-hand. Manfred accompanied
him at a little distance, full of anxiety
and horror, but resolved. As he would
have entered the chamber, the door
was clapped to with violence by an in¬
visible hand . The Prince , collecting
courage from this delay , would have
forcibly burst open the door with his
foot, but found that it resisted his utmost
efforts . Since hell will not satisfy my
curiosity, said Manfred , I will use the

human means in my power for preser¬
ving my race; Isabella shall not esca¬
pe me.

The Lady ? whose resolution had gi¬
ven way to terror the moment she had
quitted Manfred , continued her flight
to the bottom of the principal staircase.
There she stopped , not knowing whit¬
her to direct her steps , nor how to esca¬
pe from the impetuosity of the Prince.
The gates of the castle she knew were
locked 5 and guards placed in the court.
Should she, as her heart prompted her,
go and prepare Hippolita for the cruel
destiny that awaited her; she did not
doubt but Manfred would seek her
there, and that his violence would in¬
cite him to double the injury he xnedi-
taded, without leaving room for them
to avoid the impetuosity of his passions.
Delay might give him time to reflect on
the horrid measures he had conceived.

2,6

or produce some circumstance in her fa¬
vour, if she could for that night at least

avoid his odious purpose. - Yet where

conceal herself! how avoid the pursuit
he would infallibly make throughout
the castle! As these thoughts passed ra¬
pidly through her mind, she recollected
a subterraneous passage which led from
the vaults of the castle to the church
of St. Nicholas. Could she reach the
altar before she was overtaken, she knew
even Manfred's violence would not dare
to profane the sacredness of the place ;
and she determined , if no other means
of deliverance offered, to shut herself up
for ever among the holy virgins, whose
conventwas contiguous to the cathedral.

o

In this resolution , she seized a lamp that
burned at the foot of the staircase, and
hurried towards the secret passage.

The lower part of the castle was
hollowed into several intricate cloysters;

and it was not easy for one under so
much anxiety to find the door that ope¬
ned into the cavern. An awful silence
reigned throughout those subterraneous
regions , except now and then some blasts
of wind that shook the doors she had
passed, and which grating on the rusty
hinges , were reechoed through that long
labyrinth of darkness . Every murmur
struck her with new terror; — yet more
she dreaded to hear the wrathful voice
of Manfred urging his domestics to pur¬
sue her. She trod as softly as impatien¬
ce would give her leave ? — yet frequent¬
ly stopped and listened to hear if she\
was followed. In one of those moments
she thought she heard a sigh. She shud¬
dered, and recoiled a few paces. In a
moment she thought she heard the step
of some person. Her blood curdled; she
concluded it was Manfred . Every sug¬
gestion that horror could inspire rushed

into her mind. She condemned her rash
flight 5 which had thus exposed her to
his rage in a place where her cries were
not likely to draw any body to her as¬
sistance. — Yet the sound seemed not to
come from behind — if Manfred knew
where she was , he must have followed
her : She was still in one of the cloy-
sters, and the steps she had heard were
too distinct to proceed from the way
she had come. Cheared with this reflec¬
tion , and hoping to find a friend in
whoever was not the Prince , she was
going to advance ? when a door that
stood a-jar5 at some distance to the left,
was opened gently : But ere her lamp ,
which she held up , could discover who
opened it5 the person retreated precipi¬
tately on seeing the light .

Isabella , whom every incident was
sufficient to dismay, hesitated whether
she should proceed. Her dread of Man-

fred soon outweighed every other ter¬
ror . The very circumstance of the per¬
son avoiding her , gave her a sort of
courage . It could only be , she thought ,
some domestic belonging to the castle .
Her gentleness had never raised her an
enemy , and conscious innocence made
her hope that, unless sent by the Prince’s
order to seek her, his servants would
rather assist than prevent her flight .
Fortifying herself with these reflections,
and believing by what she could obser¬
ve, that she was near the mouth of the
subterraneous cavern , she approached
the door that had been opened ; but a
sudden gust of wind that met her at the
door, extinguished her lamp , and left
her in total darkness .

Words cannot paint the horror of
the Princess’s situation . Alone in so
dismal a place, her mind imprinted with
all the terrible events of the day, ho-

50

peless of escaping, expecting every mo¬
ment the arrival of Manfred , and far
from tranquil on knowing she was wi¬
thin reach of somebody , she knew not
whom, who for some cause seemed con¬
cealed thereabouts; all these thoughts
crouded on her distracted mind , and
she was ready to sink under her ap¬
prehensions . She addressed herself to
every Saint in heaven , and inwardly
implored their assistance. For a consi¬
derable time she remained in an agony
of despair. At last, as softly as was possi¬
ble, she felt for the door, and having
found it, entered trembling into the
vault from whence she had heard the
sigh and steps . It gave her a kind of
momentary joy to perceive an imperfect
ray of clouded moonshine gleam from
the roof of the vault, which seemed to
be fallen in , and from whence hung a
fragment of earth or building, she could

5/

not distinguish which, that appeared
to have been crushed inwards . She
advanced eagerly towards this chasm,
when she discerned a human form stan¬
ding close against the wall.

She shrieked , believing it the ghost
of her betrothed Conrad . The figure
advancing, said in a submissive voice,
Be not alarmed, Lady; I wil not injure
you. Isabella , a little encouraged by
the words and tone of voice of the
stranger, and recollecting that this must
be the person who had opened the door,
recovered her spirits enough to reply ,
Sir, whoever you are, take pity on a
wretched Princess , standing on the
brinkof destruction: Assist me to escape
from this fatal castle, or in few mo¬
ments I maybe made miserable forever.
Alas! said the stranger, what can I do
to assist you? I will die in your defence;
but I am unacquainted with the

castle, and want — —Oh! said Isabella $
hastily interrupting him, help me but
to find a trap- door that must be here¬
about , and it is the greatest service you
can do me , for I have not a minute to
lose. Saying these words, she felt about
on the pavement , and directed the stran¬
ger to search likewise for a smooth piece
of brass inclosed in one of the stones.
That, said she, is the lock, which opens
with a spring, of which I know the se¬
cret . If we can find that , I may escape
— if not, alas! courteous stranger, I
fear, I shall have involved you in my
misfortunes : Manfred will suspect you
for the accomplice of my flight , and you
will fall a victim to his resentment . I
value not my life, said the stranger , and
it will be some comfort to lose it, in
trying to deliver you from his tyranny .
Generous youth, said Isabella , how
shall I ever requite - as she uttered

those words, a ray of moonshine stream¬
ing through a cranny of the ruin abore
shone directly on the lock they sought
—Oh ! transport ! said Isabella, here
is the trap -door! and taking out the key,
she touched the spring, which starting
aside, discovered an iron ring. Lift up
the door, said the Princess. The stran¬
ger obeyed; and beneath appeared some
stone steps descending into a vault
totally darck . We must go down here ,
said Isabella: Follov^me; dark and dis¬
mal as it is, we cannot miss our way;
it leads directly to the church of St. Ni¬
colas — but perhaps, added the Prin¬
cess modestly, you have no reason to
leave the castle, nor have I farther oc¬
casion for your service; in a few minu¬
tes I shall be safe from Manfred's rage
* — only let me know to whom I am so
much obliged. I will never quit you,
said the stranger eagerly, until I have

placet! you in safety — nor think me.
Princess 5 more generous than I am;
though you are my principal care — the
stranger was interrupted by a sudden
noise of voices that seemed approach¬
ing, and they soon distinguished these
words: Talk not to me of necroman¬
cers; I tell you she must he in the cas¬
tle; I will find her in spite of enchant¬
ment — Oh! heavens, cried Isabella , it
is the voice of Manfred! make haste or
we are ruined! and shut the trap- door
after you. Saying this, she descended
the steps precipitately ; and as the stran¬
ger hastened to follow her, he let the
door slip out of his hands: it fell, and
the spring closed over it. He tried in
vain to open it, not having observed
Isabella's method of touching the spring;
nor had he many moments to make an
essay. The noise of the falling door
hah been heard by Manfred > who di

55

rected by the sound, hastened thither,
attended by his servants with torches .
It must be Isabella ; cried Manfred be¬
fore he entered the vault; she is escap¬
ing by the subterraneous passage, but

she cannot have got far. - What was

the astonishment of the Prince, when,
instead of Isabella , the light of the tor¬
ches discovered to him the young pea¬
sant, whom he thought confined under
the fatal helmet ! Traitor ! said Man¬
fred , how earnest thou here? I thought
thee in durance above in the court .
I am no traitor, replied the young man
boldly, nor am I answerable for your
thoughts . Presumptuous villain ! cried
Manfred , dost thou provoke my wrath?
tell me ; how hast thou escaped from
above? thou hast corrupted thy guards,
and their lives shall answer it. My po¬
verty , said the peasant calmly , will
disculpate them : Though the ministers

56

of a tyrant’s wrath , to thee they are
faithful, and but too willing to execute
the orders which you unjustly imposed
upon them . Art thou so hardy as to
dare my vengeance? said the Prince- —
hut tortures shall force the truth from
thee. Tell me, I will know thy accom¬
plices. There was my accomplice! said
the youth , smiling and pointing to the
roof. Manfred ordered the torches to
be held up , and perceived that one of
the cheeks of the enchanted casque had
forced its way through the pavement
of the court, as his servants had let it
fall over the peasant, and had broken
through into the vault, leaving a gap
through which the peasant had pres¬
sed himself some minutes before he
was found by Isabella. Was that the
way by which thou didst descend? said
Manfred. It was; said the youth. But
what noise was that , said Manfred >

57

which I heard as I entered the cloys ter?
A door clapped : said the peasant ; I
heard it as well as you. What door?
said Manfred hastily. I am not acqua¬
inted with your castle 5 said the pea¬
sant; this is the first time I ever ente¬
red it; and this vault the only part of
it within which I ever was . But I tell
thee 5 said Manfred ( wishing to find
out if the youth had discovered the
trap-door) it was this way I heard the,
noise: My servants heard it too— My
Lord 5 interrupted one of them officious¬
ly 5 to be sure it was the trap-door ,
and he was going to make his escape .
Peace! blockhead , said the Prince an¬
grily; if he was going to escape 5 how
should he come on this side? I will
know from his own mouth what noise
it was I heard. Tell me truly; thy life
depends on thy veracity . My veracity
is dearer to me than my life P said the

peasant; nor would I purchase the one
by forfeiting the other. Indeed! young
philosopher! s aid Manfred contemptuou¬
sly; tell me then, what was the noise
I heard ? Ask me what I can answer ,
said he, and put me to death instantly
if I tell you a lie . Manfred growing
impatient at the steady valour and in¬
difference of the youth, cried. Well
then, thou man of truth! answer; was
it the fall of the trap-door that I heard?
It was; said the youth. It was! said the
Prince; and how didst thou come to
know there was a trap-door here? I
saw the plate of brass by a gleam of
moonshine; replied he. But what told
thee it was a lock? said Manfred ; How
didst thou discover the secret of open¬
ing it? Providence, that delivered me
from the helmet, was able to direct me
to the spring of a lock; said he. Provi¬
dence should have gone a little farther.

39

and have placed thee out of the reach
of my resentment ? said Manfred: When
Providence had taught thee to open the
lock, it abandoned thee for a fool, who
did not know how to make use of its
favours. Why didst thou not pursue
the path pointed out for thy escape?
Why didst thou shut the trap-door be¬
fore thou hadst descended the steps? I
might ask you, my Lord, said the pea¬
sant, how I, totally unacquainted with
your castle, was to know that those
steps led to any outlet? but I scorn to
evade your questions . Wherever those
steps lead to, perhaps I should have
explored the way — I could not be in a
worse situation than I was . But the
truth is, I let the trap -door fall: Your
immediate arrival followed . I had gi¬
ven the alarm — what imported it to me
whether I was seized a minute sooner
or a minute later ? Thou art a resolute

40

villain for thy years; said Manfred —
yet on reflection I suspect thou dost but
trifle with me : Thou hast not yet told
me ho\4' thou didst open the lock. That
I will show you 5 my Lord; said the pea¬
sant; and taking up a fragment of sto¬
ne that had fallen from above , he laid
himself on the trap-door , and began to
beat on the piece of brass that covered
it; meaning to gain time for the esca¬
pe of the Princess. This presence of mind,
joined to the frankness of the youth,
staggered Manfred . He even felt a dis¬
position towards pardoning one whohad
been guilty of no crime. Manfred was
not one of those savage tyrants who
wanton in cruelty unprovoked . The
circumstances of his fortune had given
an asperity to his temper, which was
naturally humane ; and his virtues
were always ready to operate , when
his passions did not obscure his reason.

4J

While the Prince was in this sus¬
pense 5 a confused noise of voices echoed
through the distant vaults. As the sound
approached , he distinguished the cla¬
mours of some of his domestics, whom
he had dispersed through the castle in
search of Isabella , calling out, Where
is my Lord? where is the Prince? Here
I am; said Manfred ^ as they came nea¬
rer; have you found the Princess? the
first that arrived , replied , Oh ! my Lord !
I am glad we have found you— -Found
me! said Manfred ; have you found the
Princess? We thought we had, my
Lord, said the fellow, looking terrified
- — but — but, what? cried the Prince;
has she escaped?— Jaquez and I, my
Lord— yes, I and Diego > interrupted
the second, who came up in still grea¬
ter consternation— speak one of you at
a time, said Manfred ; I ask you where

is the Princess? We do not know; said

/

they both together; but we are frigh¬
tened out of our wits — so I think,
blockheads, said Manfred ; what is it
has scared you thus? — Oh! my Lord,
said Jaquez ^ Diego has seen such a
sight! your Highness would not believe
our eyes — What new absurdity is this!
cried Manfred — give me a direct an¬
swer, or , by heaven — Why, my Lord,
if it please your Highness to hear me,
said the poor fellow; Diego and I — Yes,
I and Jaquez > cried his comrade* — Did
not I forbid you to speak both at a ti¬
me? said the Prince: You, Jaquez „ an¬
swer; for the other fool seems more dis¬
tracted than thou art; what is the mat¬
ter? My gracious Lord, said Jaquez >
if it please your Highness to hear me;
Diego and I, according to your High¬
ness’s orders, went to search for the
young Lady; but being comprehensive
that we might meet the ghost of my

4-0

young Lord 5 your Highness’s son, God
rest his soul, as he has not received
Christian burial— T Sot ! cried Manfred
in a rage , is it only a ghost then that
thou hast seen? Oh! worse! worse! my
Lord 5 cried Diego: I had rather have
seen ten whole ghosts — -Grant me pa¬
tience! said Manfred; these blockheads
distract me- — out of my sight , Diego !
and thou JaqueZj tell me in one word,
art thou sober? art thou raving? thou
wast wont to have some sense : has the
other sot frightened himself and thee
too! speak; what is it he fancies he has
seen? Why, my Lord, replied Jaquez
trembling, I was going to tell your
Highness , that since the calamitous
misfortune of my young Lord, God rest
his precious soul ! not one of us your
Highness’s faithful servants , indeed
we are, my Lord, though poor men;
I say, not one of us has dared to set a

44

foot about the castle, but two together:
So Diego and I, thinking that my young
Lady might be in the great gallery,
went up there to look for her, and tell
her your Highness wanted something
to impart to her — -O blundering fools!
cried Manfred: And in the mean time
she has made her escape, because you
were afraid of goblins! — Why, thou
knave! she left me in the gallery; I ca¬
me from thence myself. For all that,
she may be there still for ought I know,
said Jaquez; but the devil shall have
me before I seek her there again — poor
Diego! I do not believe he will ever
recover it ! Recover what ? said Man¬
fred ; am I never to learn what it is
has terrified these rascals? — but I lose
my time; follow me slave; I will see if

she is in the gallery - For heavens’s

sake , my dear good Lord , cried /a-
queZ; do not go to the gallery! Satan

45

himself I believe is in the chamber next
to the gallery — - Manfred ^ who hither¬
to had treated the terror of his servants
as an idle panic , was struck at this
new circumstance . He recollected the
apparition of the portrait , and the sud¬
den closing of the door at the end of
the gallery— his voice faltered , and
he asked with disorder, what is in the
great chamber? My Lord, said Jaquez>
when Diego and I came into the galle¬
ry, he went first, for he said he had
more courage than I. So when we came
into the gallery , we found nobody .
We looked under every bench and
stool; and still we found nobody — -Were
all the pictures in their places? said
Manfred. Yes, my Lord, answered
Jaquez ; but we did not think of look¬
ing behind them— Well, well! said
Manfred j proceed. When we came to
the door of the great chamber, conti-

46

nued JaqueZj, we found it shut— And
could not you open it? said Manfred .
Oh! yes , my Lord; would to heaven
we had not! replied he — nay, it was
not I neither, it was Diego: he was
grown fool -hardy , and would go on,
though I advised him not— if ever I
open a door that is shut again— Trifle
not, said Manfred shuddering, but tell
me what you saw in the great chamber
on opening the door — I ! my Lord ! said
JaqueZj I saw nothing; I was behind

Diego ; — but I heard the noise - Ja-

quez ^ said Manfred in a solemn tone
of voice; tell me, I adjure thee by the
souls of my ancestors , what was it thou
sawest? what was it thou heardest? It
was Diego saw it , my Lord , it was
not I? replied Jaquez ; I only heard the
noise. Diego had no sooner opened the
door, than he cried out, and ran back
t — I ran back too, and said, is it the

fs -

A

ghost? the ghost! No no, said Diego ,
and his hair stood an end — it is a giant
I believe; he is all clad in armour, for
I saw his foot and part of his leg, and
they are as large as the helmet below
in the court . As he said these words ,
my Lord, we heard a violent motion and
the rattling of armour , as if the giant
was rising, for Diego has told me sin-
ce, that he believes the giant was lying
down, for the foot and leg were stret¬
ched at length on the floor . Before we
could get to the end of the gallery, we
heard the door of the great chamber
clap behind us, but we did not dare
turn back to see if the giant was follo¬
wing us — -yet, now I think on it, we
must have heard him if he had pursued

ns - but for heaven’s sake, good my

Lord, send for the chaplain, and have
the castle exorcised, for certain, it is
enchanted. Ay,, pray do, my Lord,

4%

cried all the servants at once, or we
must leave your Highness’s service- — -
Peace! dotards; said Manfred, and fol¬
low me ; I will know what all this
means. We! my Lord! cried they with
one voice , we would not go up to the
gallery for your Highness’s revenue .
The young peasant, who had stood si¬
lent, now spoke. Will your Highness,
said he, permit me to try this adven¬
ture? my life is of consequence to no¬
body: I fear no bad angel, and have
offended no good one. Your behaviour
is above your seeming; said Manfred j,
viewing him with surprise and admi¬
ration - hereafter I will reward your

bravery — but now, continued he with
a sigh, I am so circumstanced, that I da¬
re trust no eyes but my own — howe¬
ver, I give you leave to accompany me.

Manfred j, when he first followed
Isabella from the gallery, had gone di-

49

rectly to the apartment of his wife ,
concluding the Princess had retired
thither. Hippolita, who knew his step,
rose with anxious fondness to meet her
Lord, whom she had not seen since the
death of their son. She would have
flown in a transport mixed of joy and
grief to his bosom, but he pushed her
rudely off, and said, Where is Isabel¬
la? Isabella! my Lord! said the asto¬
nished Hippolita. Yes; Isabella ; cried
Manfred imperiously; I want Isabella.
My Lord, replied Matilda ^ who per¬
ceived how much his behaviour had
shocked her mother, she has not been
with us since your Highness summoned
her to your apartment. Tell me where
she is; said the Prince; I do not want
to know where she has been. My good
Lord, says Hippolita ^ your daughter
tells you the truth : Isabella left us by

your command, and has not returned

8

50

since;— but, my good Lord, compose
yourself: Retire to your rest: This dis¬
mal day has disordered you. Isabella
shall wait your orders in the morning.
What then , you know where she is !
cried Manfred: Tell me directly, for I
will not lose an instant— and you,
woman, speaking to his wife , order
your chaplain to attend me forthwith .
Isabella j said Hippolita calmly , is re¬
tired, I suppose, to her chamber : She
is not accustomed to watch at this late
hour. Gracious my Lord , continued
she, let me know what has disturbed
you. Has Isabella offended you? Trou¬
ble me not with questions, said Man¬
fred ?> but tell me where she is . Matil¬
da shall call her, said the Princess -

Sit clown, my Lord, and resume your
wonted fortitude . - — What , art thou
jealous of Isabella > replied he, that you
wish to be present at our interview ?

Good heavens! my Lord, said Hippoli-
tcij what is it your Highness means?
Thou wilt know ere many minutes are
passed ; said the cruel Prince . Send
your chaplain to me , and wait my
pleasure here . At these words he flung
out of the room in search of Isabella :
leaving the amazed Ladies thunder¬
struck with his words and frantic de¬
portment, and lost in vain conjectures
on what he was meditating .

Manfred was now returning from the
vault , attended by the peasant and a
few of his servants whom he had obli¬
ged to accompany him. He ascended
the stair- case without stopping till he
arrived at the gallery , at the door of
which he met Hippolita and her chap¬
lain . When Diego had been dismissed
by Manfred j he had gone directly to
the Princess’s apartment with the alarm
of what he had seen. That excellent

Lady 5 who no more than Manf red doub¬
ted of the reality of the vision, yet af¬
fected to treat it as a delirium of the
servant. Willing, however, to save her
Lord from any additional shock, and
prepared by a series of grief not to trem¬
ble at any accession to it; she determi¬
ned to make herself the first sacrifice ,
if fate had marked the present hour
for their destruction. Dismissing the
reluctant Matilda to her rest , who in
vain sued for leave to accompany her
mother, and attended only by her chap¬
lain, Hippolita had visited the gallery
and great chamber; and now with more
serenity of soul than she had felt for
many hours, she met her Lord, and
assured him that the vision of the gi¬
gantic leg and foot was all a fable; and
no doubt an impression made by fear,
and the dark and dismal hour of the
night, on the minds of his servants.

55

She and the chaplain had examined the
chamber , and found every thing in the
usual order.

Manfred 3 though persuaded , like
his wife , that the vision had been no
work of fancy , recovered a little from
the tempest of mind into which so ma¬
ny strange events had thrown him. A-
shamed too of his inhuman treatment
of a Princess , who returned every in¬
jury with new marks of tenderness and
duty; he felt returning love forcing
itself into his eyes — but not less asham¬
ed of feeling remorse towards one aga¬
inst whom he was inwardly meditat¬
ing a yet more bitter outrage; he cur¬
bed the yearnings of his heart, and did
not dare to lean even towards pity .
The next transition of his soul was to
exquisite villainy. Presuming on the
unshaken submission of Hippolita > he
flattered himself that she would not

54

only acquiesce with patience to a di¬
vorce 5 but would obey , if it was his
pleasure , in endeavouring to persuade
Isabella to give him her hand — but
ere he could indulge his horrid hope,
he reflected that Isabella was not to
he found . Coming to himself, he gave
orders that every avenue to the castle
should be strictly guarded, and char¬
ged his domestics on pain of their lives
to suffer nobody to pass out. The young
peasant, to whom he spoke favourably,
he ordered to remain in a small cham¬
ber on the stairs, in which there was
a pallet-bed, and the key of which he
took away himself, telling the youth
he would talk with him in the morning.
Then dismissing his attendants, and
bestowing a sullen kind of half-nod on
Hippolita i he retired to his own cham¬
ber .

55

CHAPTER II.

Matilda , who by HippolitcC s order

had retired to her apartment , was ill-
disposed to take any rest . The shock¬
ing fate of her brother had deeply af¬
fected her . She was surprized at not
seeing Isabella: But the strange words
which had fallen from her father , and
his obscure menace to the Princess his
wife 5 accompanied by the most furious
behaviour, had filled her gentle mind
with terror and alarm . She waited
anxiously for the return of Bianca , a
young damsel that attended her, whom
she had sent to learn what was become
of Isabella. Bianca soon appeared 5 and
informed her mistress of what she had

56

gathered from the servants, that Isabel¬
la was no where to be found . She rela¬
ted the adventure of the young peasant,
who had been discovered in the vault,
tho’ with many simple additions from
the incoherent accounts of the domes¬
tics ; and she dwelled principally on
the gigantic leg and foot which had
been seen in the gallery-chamber. This
last circumstance had terrified Bianca i
so much, that she was rejoiced when
Matilda told her that she would not
go to rest, but would watch till the
Princess should rise .

The young Princess wearied herself
in conjectures on the flight of Isabella ,
and on the threats of Manfred to her
mother. But what business could he
have so urgent with the chaplain? said
Matilda. Does he intend to have my
brother’s body interred privately in
the chapel? Oh! Madam, said Bian -

57

ca, now I guess. As you are become
his heiress, he is impatient to have you
married: He has always been raving
for more sons ; I warrant he is now im¬
patient for grandsons. As sure as I live.
Madam, I shall see you a bride at last
— good Madam, you won’t cast off your
faithful Bianca: You won’t put Donna
Rosara over me, now you are a great
Princess . My poor Bianca > said Ma¬
tilda j how fast your thoughts amble!
I a great Princess ! What hast thou seen
in Manfred s behaviour since my bro¬
ther’s death that bespeaks any increase
of tenderness to me? No, Bianca ; his
heart was ever a stranger to me — but
he is my father, and I must not com¬
plain. Nay, if heaven shuts my father’s
heart against me, it over-pays my little
merit in the tenderness of my mother

- - O that dear mother! yes, Bianca „

’tis there I feel the rugged temper of

h

5^

Manfred . I can support his harshness
to me with patience; but it wounds my
soul when I am witness to his cause¬
less severity towards her. Oh! Madam,
said Bianca j all men use their wives
so, when they are weary of them— And
yet you congratulated me but now ,
said Matilda > when you fancied my
father intended to dispose of me. I
would have you a great Lady, replied
Bianca j come what will. I do not wish
to see you moped in a convent, as you
would be if you had your will , and if
my Lady, your mother, who knows
that a bad husband is better than no
husband at all, Mid not hinder you —
bless me! what noise is that! St. Ni¬
cholas (or give me! I was but in jest. It
is the wind, said Matilda whistling
through the battlements in the tower
cibove: You have heard it a thousand
times. Nay, said Bianca > there was

59

no harm neither in what I said: It is

no sin to talk of matrimony - and so.

Madam, as I was saying; if my Lord
Manfred should offer you a handsome
young Prince for a bridegroom , you
would drop him a curtsy, and tell him
you would rather take the veil . Thank
heaven! I am in no such dangef, said
Matilda: You know how many pro¬
posals for me he has rejected- - And

you thank him, like a dutiful daughter,
do you. Madam?- — but come. Ma¬
dam; suppose, to-morrow morning he
was to send for you to the great coun¬
cil chamber, and there you should find
at his elbow a lovely young Prince,
with large black eyes, a smooth white
forehead, and manly curling locks like
jet; in short. Madam, a young Hero
resembling the picture of the good Al¬
fonso in the gallery, which you sit and
gaze at for hours together— Do not

6o

speak lightly of that picture , interrup¬
ted Matilda sighing: I know the ado¬
ration with which I look at that pictu¬
re is uncommon- — but I am not in love
with a coloured pannel . The character
of that virtuous Prince, the veneration
with which my mother has inspired
me for his memory, the orisons which
I know not why she has enjoined me
to pour forth at his tomb, all have con¬
curred to persuade me that some how
or other my destiny is linked with so¬
mething relating to him— Lord! Madam,
how should that be? said Bianca: I
have always heard that your family
was no way related to his: And I am
sure I cannot conceive why my Lady,
the Princess, sends you in a cold morn¬
ing or a damp evening to pray at his
tomb: He is no Saint by the Almanack .
If you must pray, why does she not
bid you address yourself to our great

6/

St, Nicholas? I am sure he is the
Saint I pray to for a husband . Perhaps
my mind would be less affected , said
Matilda j if my mother would explain
her reasons to me: But it is the mys¬
tery she observes , that inspires me with
this — I know not what to call it. As
she never acts from caprice , I am sure
there is some fatal secret at bottom — -
nay , I know there is : In her agony of
grief for my brother’s death she drop¬
ped some words that intimated as much
— Oh! dear Madam, cried Bianca >
What were they? No; said Matilda ^ if
a parent lets fall a word , and wishes it
recalled , it is not for a child to utter it .
What ! was she sorry for what she had
said? asked Bianca — I am sure. Ma¬
dam, you may trust me— With my own
little secrets, when I have any, I may;
said Matilda ; but never with my mo¬
ther’s: A child ought to have no ears

or eyes 5 but as a parent directs. Well!
to be sure , Madam, you was born to
be a saint, said Bianca , and there is
no resisting one’s vocation: You will
end in a convent at last. But there is
my Lady Isabella would not be so re¬
served to me: She will let me talk to
her of young men; and when a hand¬
some cavalier has come to the castle ,
she has owned to me that she wished
your brother Conrad resembled him.
Bianca j said the Princess, I do not
allow you to mention my fried disres¬
pectfully. Isabella is of a chearful dis^
position, but her soul is pure as virtue
itself . She knows your idle babling
humour , and perhaps has now and then
encouraged it , to divert melancholy ,
and enliven the solitude in which my
father keeps us- — -Blessed Mary ! said
Bianca starting, there it is again! — -
dear Madam, do you hear nothing? —

63

this castle is certainly haunted! — Pea¬
ce! said Matilda j and listen! I did think
I heard a voice —but it must be fancy;
your terrors , I suppose , have infected
me. Indeed! indeed! Madam, said Bi~
anca > half- weeping with agony, I am
sure I heard a voice. Does any body
lie in the chamber beneath? said the
Princess. Nobody has dared to lie there,
answered Bianca since the great astro¬
loger that was your brother’s tutor,
drowned himself. For certain, Madam,
his ghost and the young Prince’s are
now met in the chamber below*- — for
heaven’s sake let us fly to your mother’s
apartment! I charge you not to stir;
said Matilda. If they are spirits in pain,
we may ease their sufferings by que¬
stioning them . They can mean no hurt
to us, for we have not injured them — -
and if they should, shall we be more
safe in one chamber than in another ?

6/f

Reach me my beads; we will say a
prayer, and then speak to them. Oh!
dear Lady, I would not speak to a
ghost for the world; cried Bianca — as
she said those words , they heard the
casement of the little chamber below
Matilda’s open. They listened atten¬
tively, and in few minutes thought they
heard a person sing, but could not dis¬
tinguish the words . This can be no
evil spirit; said the Princess in a low
voice: It is undoubtedly one of the fa¬
mily — open the window , and we shall
know the voice. I dare not indeed,
Madam; said Bianca . Thou art a very
fool; said Matilda j opening the win¬
dow gentlv herself. The noise the Prin-
cess made was however heard by the
person beneath, who stopped; and they
concluded had heard the casement open.
Is any body below? said the Princess:
If there is, speak. Yes; said an unk-

65

nown voice. Who is it? said Matilda.
A stranger ; replied the voice . What
stranger? said she; and how didst thou
come there at this unusual hour , when
all the gates of the castle are locked?
I am not here willingly; answered the

voice - -but pardon me , Lady , if I have

disturbed your rest: I knew not that I
was overheard. Sleep had forsaken me:
I left a restless couch, and came to
waste the irksome hours with gazing
on the fair approach of morning, impa¬
tient to be dismissed from this castle .
Thy words and accents, said Matilda >
are of a melancholy cast : If thou art
unhappy , I pity thee. If poverty afflicts
thee, let me know it: I will mention
thee to the Princess, whose beneficent
soul ever melts for the distressed; and
she will relieve thee. I am indeed
unhappy, said the stranger; and I know
not what wealth is : But I do not com-

66

plain of the lot which heaven has cast
for me: I am young and healthy , and
am not ashamed of owing my support
to myself — yet think me not proud , or
that I disdain your generous offers . I
will remember you in my orisons , and
will pray for blessings on your gracious
self and your noble mistress — if I sigh.
Lady, it is for others, not for myself.
Now I have it, Madam; said Bianca ,
whispering the Princess . This is cer¬
tainly the young peasant; and by my

conscience he is in love- - Well! this

is a charming adventure ! — do, Madam,
let us sift him. He does not know you,
but takes you for one of my Lady Hip -
polita s women. Art thou not ashamed,
Bianca l said the Princess: What right
have we to pry into the secrets of this
young man’s heart? he seems virtuous
and frank, and tells us he is unhappy:
Are those circumstances that authorize

us to make a property of him? how are
we intitled to his confidence? Lord!
Madam , how little you know of love!
replied Bianca: Why lovers have no
pleasure equal to talking of their mis¬
tress. And would you have me become
a peasant’s confident? said the Princess.
Well then, let me talk to him; said
Bianca : Though I have the honour of
being your Highness’s maid of honour,
I was not always so great: Besides, if
love levels ranks, it raises them too: I
have a respect for any young man in
love— Peace! simpleton; said the Prin¬
cess . Though he said he was unhappy,
it does not follow that he must be in
love . Think of all that has happened
to-day, and tell me if there are no mis¬
fortunes but what love causes. Stran¬
ger, resumed the Princess, if thy mis¬
fortunes have not been occasioned by
thy own fault, aud are within the com-

68

pass of the Princess HippolitcC s power
to redress, I will take upon me to an¬
swer that she will be thy protectress.
When thou art dismissed from this ca¬
stle, repair to holy father Jerome at the
convent adjoining to the church of St.
Nicholas j and make thy story known
to him, as far as thou thinkest meet :
He will not fail to inform the Princess,
who is the mother of all that want her
assistance. Farewell: It is not seemly
for me to hold farther converse with a
man at this unwonted hour. May the
Saints guard thee, gracious Lady! re¬
plied the peasant — but oh! if a poor
and worthless stranger might presume

to beg a minute’s audience farther -

am I so happy? — the casement is not
shut — might I venture to ask — Speak
quickly ; said Matilda ; the morning
dawns apace : Should the labourers
come into the fields and perceive us — -

6g

What wouldst thou ask?— I know not
how— I know not if I dare- — said the
young stranger faltering — yet the hu¬
manity with which you have spoken
to me emboldens — Lady! dare I trust
you? — Heavens! said Matilda, What
dost thou mean? with what wouldst
thou trust me?— speak boldly , if thy
secret is fit to be entrusted to a virtuous
breast- — *1 would ask 5 said the pea¬
sant 5 recollecting himself , whether
what I have heard from the domestics
is true , that the Princess is missing
from the castle? What imports it to thee
to know? replied Matilda. Thy first
words bespoke a prudent and becom¬
ing gravity . Dost thou come hither to
pry into the secrets of Manfred? — A-
dieu . I have been mistaken in thee .
Saying these words , she shut the case¬
ment hastily , without giving the young
man time to reply. I had acted more

wisely , said the Princess to Bianca
with some sharpness , if I had let thee
converse with this peasant: His inqui¬
sitiveness seems of a piece with thy
own . It is not fit for me to argue with
your Highness , replied Bianca ; but
perhaps the questions I should have
put to him 5 would have been more to
the purpose, than those you have been
pleased to ask him. Oh! no doubt; said
Matilda ; you are a very discreet per¬
sonage ! may I know what you would
have asked him? A by-stander often
sees more of the game than those that
play ; answered Bianca . Does your
Highness think, Madam, that his ques¬
tion about my Lady Isabella was the
result of mere curiosity? No, no, Ma¬
dam; there is more in it than you great
folks are aware of. Lopez told me that
all the servants believe this young fell¬
ow contrived my Lady Isabellas esca-

pe — now, pray. Madam, observe— — ~
you and I both know that my Lady
Isabella never much fancied the Prince

your brother - Well! he is killed just

in the critical minute — I accuse nobo¬
dy. A helmet falls from the moon— so,
my Lord 5 your father says; but Lopez
and all the servants say that this young
spark is a magician , and stole it from
Alfonso's tomb — Have done with this
rhapsody of impertinence, said Matil¬
da. Nay, Madam, as you please; cried
Bianca — yet it is very particular tho5,
that my Lady Isabella should be miss¬
ing the very same day , and that this
young sorcerer should be found at the
mouth of the trap-door — I accuse no¬
body- — but if my young Lord came
honestly by his death — Dare not on
thy duty, said Matilda , to breathe a
suspicion on the purity of my dear Isa¬
bella's fame- — -Purity, or not purity,

7 2,

said Bianca D gone she is* — a stranger
is found that nobody knows : You que¬
stion him yourself: He tells you he is
in love 5 or unhappy , it is the same
thing — nay , he owned he was unhap¬
py about others; and is any body unhap¬
py about another 5 unless they are in
love with them? and at the very next
word, he asks innocently, poor soul!
if my Lady Isabella is missing — To be
sure, said Matilda, thy observations
are not totally without fo undation- — Isa¬
bella's flight amazes me: The curiosi¬
ty of this stranger is very particular —
yet Isabella never concealed a thought
from me — So she told you, said Bi¬
anca y to fish out your secrets — but
who knows. Madam, but this stranger
may be some Prince in disguise?- — do,
Madam, let me open the window, and
ask him a few questions. No, replied
Matilda , I will ask him myself, if he

knows aught of Isabella He is not wor¬
thy that I should converse farther with
him. She was going to open the case¬
ment , when they heard the bell ring
at the postern-gate of the castle, which
is on the right hand of the tower, whe¬
re Matilda lay . This prevented the
Princess from renewing the conversa¬
tion with the stranger .

After continuing silent for some ti¬
me; I am persuaded, said she to Bian¬
ca j that whatever be the cause of Isa¬
bella's flight, it had no unworthy mo¬
tive. If this stranger was accessary to
it, she must be satisfied of his fidelity
and worth. I observed, did not you,
Bianca? that his words were tinctured
with an uncommon infusion of piety .
It was no ruffian’s speech : His phrases
were becoming a man of gentle birth.
I told you. Madam, said Bianca , that
I was sure he was some Prince in dis-

74

guise — Yet, said Matilda ^ if he was
privy to her escape , how will you ac¬
count for his not accompanying her in
her flight? why expose himself unne¬
cessarily and rashly to my Father’s re¬
sentment? As for that. Madam, replied
she , if he could get from under the hel¬
met, he will find ways of eluding your
Father’s anger. I do not doubt but he
has some talisman or other about him
- — You resolve every thing into magic;
said Matilda — but a man who has
any intercourse with infernal spirits ,
does not dare to make use of those tre¬
mendous and holy words, which he
uttered. Didst thou not observe with
what fervour he vowed to remember
me to heaven in his prayers? — yes ;
Isabella was undoubtedly convinced
of his piety . Commend me to the piety
of a young fellow and a damsel that
consult to elope! said Bianca. No, no.

75

Madam; my Lady Isabella is of ano¬
ther guess mould than you take her for.
She used indeed to sigh and lift up her
eyes in your company , because she
knows you are a Saint — but when
your back was turned- — You wrong
her; said Matilda: Isabella is no hy¬
pocrite: She has a due sense of devo¬
tion, but never affected a call she has
not. On the contrary, she always com¬
bated my inclination for the cloyster :
And though I own the mystery she has
made to me of her flight, confounds me;
though it seems inconsistent with the
friendship between us ; I cannot forget
the disinterested warmth with which
she always opposed my taking the veil:
She wished to see me married though
my dower would have been a loss to
her and my brother’s children. For her
sake I will believe well of this young
peasant. Then you do think there is

1

some liking between them; said Bian¬
ca— While she was speaking, a servant
came hastily into the chamber and told
the Princess that the Lady Isabella
was found. Where? said Matilda . She
has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas' §
church; replied the servant: Father
Jerome has brought the news himself:
he is below with his Highness. Where
is my Mother? said Matilda. She is in
her own chamber. Madam, and has as¬
ked for you .

Manfred had risen at the first dawn
of light, and gone to Hippolita' s apart¬
ment, to inquire if she knew ought of
Isabella . While he was questioning her ,
word was brought that Jerome deman¬
ded to speak with him. Manfred j little
suspecting the cause of the Friar’s ar¬
rival, and knowing he was employed
by Hippolita , in her charities, ordered
him to be admitted, intending to leave

7?

them together, while he pursued his
search after Isabella. Is ybur business
with me or the Princess ? said Man¬
fred . With both . Replied the holy man .
The Lady Isabella — What of her! in¬
terrupted Manfred eagerly- — Is at St.
Nicholas's altar, replied Jerome. That
is no business of Hippolita ; said Man¬
fred with confusion : let us retire to my
chamber, Father; and inform me how
she came thither. No; my Lord; re¬
plied the good man with an air of firm¬
ness and authority, that daunted even
the resolute Manfred, who could not
help revering the saint-like virtues of
Jerome: My commission is to both; and
with your Highness’s goodliking, in
the presence of both I shall deliver it
■ — but first, my Lord, I must interro¬
gate the Princess, whether she is ac¬
quainted with the cause of the Lady
Isabella's retirement from your castle

—No 5 on my soul; said Hippolita:
does Isabella charge me with being
privy to it? — Father , interrupted Man¬
fred , I pay due reverence to your holy
profession; but I am sovereign here,
and will allow no meddling priest to
interfere in the affairs of my domestic.
If you have ought to say, attend me to
my chamber — I do not use to let my
Wife be acquainted with the secret
affairs of my state ; they are not within
a woman’s province . My Lord , said
the holy man, I am no intruder into
the secrets of families. My office is to
promote peace, to heal divisions, to
preach repentance, and teach mankind
to curb their headstrong passions. I for¬
give your Highness’s uncharitable apo¬
strophe: I know my duty, and am the
minister of a mightier prince than Man¬
fred . Hearken to him who speaks
through my organs . Manfred trembled

79

with rage and shame. Hippolita9 s coun¬
tenance declared her astonishment and
impatience to know where this would
end: her silence more strongly spoke
her observance of Manfred .

The Lady Isabella „ resumed Jero¬
me ^ commends herself to both your
Highnesses; she thanks both for the
kindness with which she has been trea¬
ted in your castle: She deplores the
loss of your son, and her own misfor¬
tune in not becoming the daughter of
such wise and noble Princes , whom
she shall always respect as Parents;
she prays for uninterrupted union and
felicity between you : {Manfred's colour
changed ) but as it is no longer possi¬
ble for her to be allied to you, she en¬
treats your consent to remain in san¬
ctuary, till she can learn news of her
father, or, by the certainty of his death,
be at liberty, with the approbation of

8o

her guardians , to dispose of herself in
suitable marriage. I shall give no such
consent; said the Prince; but insist on
her return to the castle without delay:
I am answerable for her person to her
guardians , and will not brook her being
in any hands but my own. Your High¬
ness will recollect whether that can
any longer be proper; replied the Friar.
I want no monitor, said Manfred co¬
louring; Isabella's conduct leaves room
for strange suspicions — and that young
villain, who was at least the accompli¬
ce of her flight, if not the cause of it

- The cause ! interrupted Jerome ;

was a young man the cause! This is
not to be borne! cried Manfred. Am I
to be bearded in my own palace by an
insolent Monk! thou art privy I guess,
to their amours. I would pray to hea¬
ven to clear up your uncharitable sur¬
mizes, said Jerome if your Highness

were not satisfied in your conscience
how unjustly you accuse me. I do pray
to heaven to pardon that uncharitar
bleness : And I implore your Highness
to leave the Princess at peace in that
holy place 5 where she is not liable to
be disturbed by such vain and worldly
fantasies as discourses of love from any
man. Cant not to me, said Manfred ^
but return and bring the Princess to
her duty . It is my duty to prevent her
return hither ; said Jerome . She is
where orphans and virgins are safest
from the snares and wiles of this world;
and nothing but a parent’s authority
shall take her thence. I am her parent,
cried Manfred ^ and demand her . She
wished to have you for her parent; said
the Friar: But heaven that forbad that
connection, has for ever dissolved all
ties betwixt you: And I announce to
your Highness — Stop! audacious man,

i

said Manfred., and dread my displea¬
sure. Holy father , said Hippolita ; it
is your office to be no respecter of per¬
sons : you must speak as your duty pre¬
scribes : But it is my duty to hear noth¬
ing that it pleases not my Lord I
should hear . Attend the Prince to his
chamber. I will retire to my oratory,
and pray to the blessed virgin to inspi¬
re you with her holy councils, and to
restore the heart of my gracious Lord
to its wonted peace and gentleness. Ex¬
cellent woman! said the Friar — my
Lord, I attend your pleasure.

Manfred; accompanied by the Friar,
passed to his own apartment, where
shutting the door, I perceive, father,
said he, that Isabella has acquainted
you with my purpose. Now hear my
resolve, and obey. Reasons of state,
most urgent reasons , my own and the
safety of my people , demand that I

<?5

should have a son. It is in vain to ex¬
pect an heir from Hippolita . I have
made choice of Isabella . You must
bring her back; and you must do mo¬
re. I know the influence you have with
Hippolita: her conscience is in your
hands . She is, I allow, a faultless wo¬
man: Her soul is set on heaven, and
scorns the little grandeur of this world:
you can withdraw her from it intirely .
Persuade her to consent to the disso¬
lution of our marriage, and to retire
into a monastery — she shall endow one
if she will; and she shall have the means
of being as liberal to your order as she
or you can wish. Thus you will divert
the calamities that are hanging over
our heads, and have the merit of saving
the principality of Otranto from destru¬
ction. You are a prudent man, and
though the warmth of my temper be¬
trayed me into some unbecoming ex-

84

pressions, I honour your virtue, and
wish to be indebted to you for the re¬
pose of my life and the preservation
of my family .

The will of heaven be done ! said
the Friar. I am but its worthless instru¬
ment. It makes use of my tongue, to
tell thee, Prince, of thy unwarantable
designs. The injuries of the virtuous
Hippolita have mounted to the throne
of pity. By me thou art reprimanded
for thy adulterous intention of repu¬
diating her: By me thou art warned
not to pursue the incestuous design on
thy contracted daughter. Heaven that
delivered her from thy fury, when the
judgments so recently fallen on thy
house ought to have inspired thee with
other thoughts, will continue to watch
over her. Even I, a poor and despised
Friar, am able to protect her from thy
violence — I, sinner as I am, and un-

charitably reviled by your Highness as
an accomplice of I know not what
amours , scorn the allurements with
which it has pleased thee to tempt mi¬
ne honesty. I love my order; I honour
devout souls ; I respect the piety of thy
Princess — but I will not betray the
confidence she reposes in me., nor serve
even the cause of religion by foul and
sinful compliances — -but forsooth! the
welfare of the state depends on your
Highness having a son. Heaven mocks
the short-sighted views of man. But
yes ter -morn ? whose house was so great,
so flourishing as Manfred' s?- — where
is young Conrad now! — my Lord, I
respect your tears — but I mean not
to check them— let them flow , Prince !
they will weigh more with heaven to¬
ward the welfare of thy subjects, than
a marriage, which, founded on lust or
policy, could never prosper. The see-

86

pter , which passed from the race of
Alfonso to thine , cannot be preserved
by a match which the church will ne¬
ver allow. If it is the will of the most
High that Manfred! s name must perish,
resign yourself, my Lord, to its decrees;
and thus deserve a crown that can ne¬
ver pass away.— Come, my Lord; I like
this sorrow — let us return to the Prin¬
cess: She is not apprized of your cruel
intentions; nor did I mean more than
to alarm you. You saw with what gen¬
tle patience, with what efforts of love,
she heard , she rejected hearing the
extent of your guilt . I know she longs
to fold you in her arms, and assure you
of her unalterable affection. Father,
said the Prince, you mistake my com¬
punction: true; I honour Hippolita' s
virtues ; I think her a Saint; and wish
it were for my soul’s health to tie faster
the knot that has united us — but alas!

Father, you know not the bitterest of
my pangs ! it is some time that I have
had scruples on the legality of our
union : Hippolita is related to me in
the fourth degree- — it is true, we had
a dispensation: But I have been infor¬
med that she had also been contracted
to another. This it is that sits heavy
at my heart: To this state of unlawful
Wedlock I impute the visitation that has
fallen on me in the death of Conrad ! —
ease my conscience of this burden: dis¬
solve our marriage, and accomplish the
work of godliness which your divine
exhortations have commenced in my
soul.

How cutting was the anguish which
the good man felt, when he perceived
this turn in the wily Prince ! He trem¬
bled for Hippolita , whose ruin he saw
was determined; and he feared if Man¬
fred had no hope of recovering Isabel -

88

la, that his impatience for a son would
direct him to some other object, who
might not be equally proof against the
temptation of Manfred' s rank. For so¬
me time the holy man remained absor¬
bed in thought. At length, conceiving
some hopes from delay, he thought the
wisest conduct would be to prevent the
Prince from despairing of recovering
Isabella . Her the Friar knew he could
dispose, from her affection to Hippoli -
ta 2 and from the aversion she had ex¬
pressed to him for Manfred's addresses,
to second his views, till the censures of
the church could be fulminated against
a divorce. With this intention, as if struck
with the Prince’s scruples , he at length
said; My Lord, I have been pondering
on what your Highness has said; and if
in truth it is delicacy of conscience that
is the real motive of your repugnance to
your virtuous Lady , far be it from me to

Scj

endeavour to harden your heart . The
church is an indulgent mother : unfold
your griefs to her : she alone can admi¬
nister comfort to your soul., either by
satisfying your conscience , or upon exa¬
mination of your scruples, by setting you
at liberty , and indulging you in the law¬
ful means of continuing your lineage . In
the latter case, if the Lady Isabella can
be brought to consent — Manfred j who
concluded that he had either over-rea¬
ched the good man, or that his first
warmth had been but a tribute paid to
appearance, was overjoyed at his sud¬
den turn, and repeated the most magni¬
ficent promises, if he should succeed by
the F riar’s mediation . The well-meaning
Priest suffered him to deceive himself,
fully determined to traverse his views,
instead of seconding them .

Since we now understand one ano¬
ther , resumed the Prince, I expect.

go

Father 5 that you satisfy me in one point.
Who is the youth that I found in the
vault? He must have been privy to
Isabella's flight: Tell me truly; is he
her lover? or is he an agent for ano¬
ther’s passion? I have often suspected
Isabella's indifference to my son: a thous¬
and circumstances croud on my mind
that confirm that suspicion. She herself
was so conscious of it, that while I
discoursed her in the gallery, she outran
my suspicions, and endeavoured to jus¬
tify herself from coolness to Conracl .
The Friar, who knew nothing of the
youth, but what he had learnt occasio¬
nally from the Princess, ignorant what
was become of him , and not sufficient¬
ly reflecting on the impetuosity of
Manfred's temper , conceived that it
might not be amiss to sow the seeds of
jealousy in his mind: they might be
turned to some use hereafter, either by

prejudicing the Prince against Isabel¬
la > if he persisted in that union; or by
diverting his attention to a wrong scent,
and employing his thoughts on a visio¬
nary intrigue, prevent his engaging in
any new pursuit. With this unhappy
policy, he answered in a manner to
confirm Manfred in the belief of some
connection between Isabella and the
youth. The Prince, whose passions
wanted little fuel to throw them into
a blaze, fell into a rage at the idea of
what the Friar suggested. I will fathom
to the bottom of this intrigue; cried he;
and quitting Jerome abruptly, with a
command to remain there till his re¬
turn, he hastened to the great hall of
the castle, and ordered the peasant to
be brought before him .

Thou hardened young impostor! said
the Prince, as soon as he saw the youth;
what becomes of thy boasted veracity

now? it was Providence, was it, and
the light of the moon , that discovered
the lock of the trap-door to thee? Tell
me, audacious boy, who thou art, and
how long thou hast been acquainted

with the Princess - -and take care to

answer with less equivocation than
thou didst last night, or tortures shall
wring the truth from thee. The young
man, perceiving that his share in the
flight of the Princess was discovered,
and concluding that any thing he should
say could no longer be of service or de¬
triment to her, replied, I am no impo¬
stor, my Lord, nor have I deserved
opprobrious language . I answered to
every question your Highness put to
me last night with the same veracity
that I shall speak now: And that will
not be from fear of your tortures , but
because my soul abhors a falshood.
Please to repeat your questions, my

Lord; I am ready to give you all the
satisfaction in my power. You know
my questions 5 replied the Prince , and
only want time to prepare an evasion.
Speak directly; who art thou? and how
long hast thou been known to the
Princess? I am a labourer at the next
village; said the peasant; my name is
Theodore. The Princess found me in the
vault last night: Before that hour I ne¬
ver was in her presence. I may believe
as much or as little as I please of this,
said Manfred ; but I will hear thy own
story, before I examine into the truth
of it. Tell me, what reason did the
Princess give thee for making her es¬
cape? thy life depends on thy answer.
She told me, replied Theodore ^ that
she was on the brink of destruction,
and that if she could not escape from
the castle, she was in danger in a few
moments of being made miserable for

94

ever. And on this flight foundation , on
a silly girl’s report, said Manfred v thou
didst hazard my displeasure ! I fear no
man’s displeasure , said Theodore > when
a woman in distress puts herself under
my protection — During this examina¬
tion 9 Matilda was going to the apart¬
ment of Hippolita . At the upper end
of the hall, where Manfred sat, was
a boarded gallery with latticed win¬
dows, thro’which Matilda and Bianca
were to pass . Hearing her father’s
voice, and seeing the servants assem¬
bled round him , she stopped to learn
the occasion . The prisoner soon drew
her attention . The steady and composed
manner in which he answered, and the
gallantry of his last reply, which were
the first words she heard distinctly, in¬
terested her in his favour. His person
was noble, handsome, and commanding,
even in that situation: But his counte-

95

nance soon engrossed her whole care .
Heavens ! Bianca > said the Princess
softly, do I dream? or is not that youth
the exact resemblance of Alfonso's pi¬
cture in the gallery? She could say no
more, for her father’s voice grew lou¬
der at every word. This bravado, said
he, surpasses all thy former insolence.
Thou shalt experience the wrath with
which thou darest to trifle. Seize him,
continued Manfred j and bind him —
the first news the Princess hears of her
champion shall be, that he has lost
his head for her sake. The injustice of
which thou art guilty towards me, said
Theodore ; convinces me that I have
done a good deed in delivering the
Princess from thy tyranny . May she
be happy, whatever becomes of me!
This is a Lover! cried Manfred in a
rage: A peasant within sight of death
is not animated by such sentiments .

9 6

Tell me, tell me, rash boy, who thou
art, or the rack shall force thy secret
from thee. Thou hast threatened me
with death already, said the youth,
for the truth I have told thee: If that
is all the encouragement I am to expect
for sincerity, I am not tempted to in¬
dulge thy vain curiosity farther. Then
thou wilt not speak! said Manfred . I
will not ; replied he . Bear him away
into the court-yard; said Manfred ; I
will see his head this instant severed
from his body- — Matilda fainted at
hearing those words. Bianca shrieked,
and cried, Help! help! the Princess is
dead! Manfred started at this ejacula¬
tion, and demanded what was the mat¬
ter! The young peasant, who heard it
too, was struck with horror, and asked
eagerly the same question; hut Man¬
fred ordered him to be hurried into the
court, and kept there for execution.

97

till he had informed himself of the cau¬
se of Bianca's shrieks . When he lear¬
ned the meaning , he treated it as a
womanish panic , and ordering Matil¬
da to be carried to her apartment , he
rushed into the court, and calling for
one of his guards, bad Theodore kneel
down, and prepare to receive the fa¬
tal blow .

The undaunted youth received the
hitter sentence with a resignation that
touched every heart but Manfred' s . He
wished earnestly to know the meaning
of the words he had heard relating to
the Princess; but fearing to exasperate
the tyrant more against her, he desis¬
ted. The only boon he deigned to ask,
was , that he might be permitted to
have a confessor, and make his peace
with heaven. Manfred who hoped by
the confessors means to come at the
youth’s history, readily granted his re-

9 8

quest: and being convinced that Father
Jerome was now in his interest, he or¬
dered him to be called and shrieve the
prisoner. The holy man, who had litt¬
le foreseen the catastrophe that his
imprudence occasioned , fell on his
knees to the Prince, and adjured him
in the most solemn manner not to shed
innocent blood . He accused himself in
the bitterest terms for his indiscretion,
endeavoured to disculpate the youth ,
and left no method untried to soften
the tyrant’s rage. Manfred more in¬
censed than appeased by Jerome\ in¬
tercession, whose retraction now made
him suspect he had been imposed upon
by both, commanded the Friar to do
his duty, telling him he would not al¬
low the prisoner many minutes for con¬
fession. Nor do I ask many, my Lord;
said the unhappy young man. My sins ,
thank heaven! have not been numerous;

P9

/

nor exceed what might be expected at
my years. Dry your tears , good father*
and let us dispatch : This is a bad world ;
nor have I had cause to leave it with
regret . Oh ! wretched youth ! said
Jerome; how canst thou bear the sight
of me with patience? I am thy murderer!
it is I have brought this dismal hour
upon thee! I forgive thee from my soul,
said the youth, as I hope heaven will
pardon me . Hear my confession , fa¬
ther; and give me thy blessing. How
can 1 prepare thee for thy passage, as
I ought? said Jerome . Thou canst not
be saved without pardoning thy foes
- — and canst thou forgive that impious
man there! I can; said Theodore; I do.
— And does not this touch thee ! cruel
Prince! said the Friar. — -I sent for thee
to confess him, said Manfred sternly;
not to plead for him. Thou didst first
incense me against him — his blood be

JOO

upon thy head! It will! it will! said
the good man , in an agony of sorrow.
Thou and I must never hope to go
where this blessed youth is going! Dis¬
patch ! said Manfred : I am no more to
be moved by the whining of priests ,
than by the shrieks of women . What !
said the youth; is it possible that my
fate could have occasioned what I heard !
is the Princess then again in thy po¬
wer ? Thou dost but remember me
of my wrath ; said Manfred: Prepare
thee ? for this moment is thy last . The
youth 3 who felt his indignation rise 5
and who was touched with the sorrow
which he saw he had infused into all
the spectators 5 as well as into the Friar,
suppressed liis emotions, and putting
off his doublet , and unbuttoning his
collar, knelt down to his prayers . As
he stooped, his shirt slipped down be¬
low his shoulder , and discovered the

JOT

mark of a bloody arrow. Gracious hea¬
ven! cried the holy man starting, what
do I see! it is my child ! my Theodore !

The passions that ensued, must be
conceived; they cannot be painted. The
tears of the assistants were suspended
by wonder, rather than stopped by
joy. They seemed to inquire in the eyes
of their Lord what they ought to feel.
Surprise, doubt, tenderness, respect,
succeeded each other in the countenan¬
ce of the youth . He received with mo¬
dest submission the effusion of the old
man’s tears and embraces: Yet afraid
of giving a loose to hope, and suspec¬
ting from what had passed the infle¬
xibility of Manfred' s temper, he cast
a glance towards the Prince, as if to
say, canst thou be unmoved at such a
scene as this?

Manfred's heart was capable of
being touched . Pie forgot his anger in his

astonishment; yet his pride forbad his
owning himself affected. He even doub¬
ted whether this discovery was not a
contrivance of the friar to save the
youth. What may this mean? said lie :
How can he be thy son? is it consis¬
tent with thy profession or reputed
sanctity to avow a peasant’s offspring
for the fruit of thy irregular amours 1
Oh! God, said the holy man, dost thou
question his being mine? could I feel
the anguish I do, if I were not his fa¬
ther? Spare him! good Prince, spare
him ! and revile me as thou pleasest .
Spare him! spare him, cried the atten¬
dants, for this good man’s sake! Peace!
said Manfred sternly : I must know
more, ere I am disposed to pardon. A
Saint’s bastard may be no saint himself.
Injurious Lord ! said Theodore ; add
not insult to cruelty. If I am this ve¬
nerable man’s son, tho’ no Prince, as

Jos

thou art , know, the blood that flows
in my veins — Yes, said the Friar, in¬
terrupting him, his blood is noble; nor
is he that abject thing, my Lord, you
speak him. He is my lawful son; and
Sicily can boast of few houses more
ancient than that of Falconara • — —but
alas! my Lord, what is blood! what
is nobility! We are all reptiles, mise¬
rable, sinful creatures. It is piety alone
that can distinguish us from the dust
whence we sprung, and whither we
must return — Truce to your sermon;
said Manfred: You forget, you are no
longer Friar Jerome , but the Count of
Falconara . Let me know your history:
you will have time to moralize hereaf¬
ter 5 if you should not happen to obtain
the grace of that sturdy criminal there.
Mother of God! said the Friar , is it
possible my Lord can refuse a father
the life of his only, his long-lost child!

J04

Trample me, my* Lord, scorn, afflict
me, accept my life for his, but spare
my son! Thou canst feel then, said
Manfred j what it is to lose an only
son!— -a little hour ago thou didst
preach up resignation tome: My House,
if fate so pleased, must perish — but
the Count of Falconara — Alas! my
Lord, said Jerome > I confess I have
offended ; but aggravate not an old
man’s sufferings! I boast not of my fa¬
mily, nor think of such vanities — it is
nature that pleads for this boy ; it is
the memory of the dear woman that
bore him — is she, Theodore is she
dead? — Her soul has long been with
the blessed; said Theodore. Oh! how?
cried Jerome > tell me — No — she is
happy! Thou art all my care now! —

most dread Lord! will you - will you

grant me my poor boy’s life? Return
to thy convent; answered Manfred;

a

J05

conduct the Princess hither; obey me in
what else thou knowest; and I promise
thee the life of thy son.— Oh ! my Lord,
said Jerome j, is my honesty the price I
must pay for this dear youth’s safety — -
For me! cried Theodore: Let me die a
thousand deaths, rather than stain thy
conscience. What is it the tyrant would
exact of thee? is the Princess still safe
from his power? protect her, thou ve¬
nerable old man; and let all the weight
of his wrath fall on me. Jerome endea¬
voured to check the impetuosity of the
youth; and ere Manfred could reply,
the trampling of horses was heard , and
a brazen trumpet, which hung without
the gate of the castle, was suddenly
sounded . At the same instant the sable
plumes on the enchanted helmet, which
still remained at the other end of the
court, were tempestuously agitated,
and nodded thrice , as if bowed by so¬
me invisible wearer . 0

CHAPTER III.

1V1 AN FRED's heart misgave him
when he beheld the plumage on the
miraculous casque shaken in concert
with the sounding of the brazen trum¬
pet. Father! said he to Jerome, whom
he now ceased to treat as Count of
Falconara , what mean these portents?
If I have offended — the plumes were
shaken with greater violence than be¬
fore. Unhappy Prince that I am! cried
Manfrecl — Holy Father! will you not
assist me with your prayers? My Lord,
replied Jerome, heaven is no doubt
displeased with your mockery of its
servants . Submit yourself to the church;
and cease to persecute her ministers .

Dismiss this innocent youth; and learn
to respect the holy character I wear :
Heaven will not be trifled with : you

see - the trumpet sounded again . I

acknowledge I have been too hasty;
said Manfred. Father , do you go to
the wicket 5 and demand who is at the
gate. Do you grant me the life of Theo¬
dore? replied the Friar. I do; said
Manfred; but inquire who is without!

Jerome falling on the neck of his
son 5 discharged a flood of tears , that
spoke the fulness of his soul. You pro¬
mised to go to the gate; said Manfred .
I thought, replied ’ the Friar , your
Highness would excuse my thanking
you first in this tribute of my heart .
Go, dearest Sir, said Theodore ; obey
the Prince : I do not deserve that you
should delay his satisfaction for me.

Jerome •> inquiring who was without,
was answered, a Herald. From whom?

gantic sabre; said the Herald; and I
must speak with the usurper of Otran¬
to . Jerome returned to the Prince ,
and did not fail to repeat the message
in the very words it had been uttered.
The first sounds struck Manfred with
terror ; hut when he heard himself sti-
led usurper, his rage rekindled , and
all his courage revived. Usurper! —
insolent villain! cried he, who dares
to question my title? retire, Father;
this is no business for Monks: I will
meet this presumptuous man myself.
Go to your convent and prepare the
Princess’s return : Your Son shall he a
hostage for your fidelity: His life de¬
pends on your obedience. Good heaven!
my Lord, cried Jerome > your Highness
did hut this instant freely pardon my
child — have you so soon forgot the in¬
terposition of heaven? Heaven, replied

jog

Manfred > does not send Heralds to
question the title of a lawful Prince — -
I doubt whether it even notifies its will
through Friars — but that is your af¬
fair, not mine. At present you know
my pleasure; and it is not a saucy He¬
rald, that shall save your son, if you
do not return with the Princess .

It was in vain for the holy man to
reply . Manfred commanded him to be
conducted to the postern-gate , and
shut out from the castle: And he or¬
dered some of his attendants to carry
Theodore to the top of the black tower,
and guard him strictly; scarce permit¬
ting the father and son to exchange a
hasty embrace at parting . He then
withdrew to the hall, and seating him¬
self in princely state, ordered the He¬
rald to be admitted to his presence .

Well! thou insolent! said the Prin¬
ce , what would st thou with me ! I

JJO

come, replied lie, to thee, Manfred,
usurper of the principality of Otran¬
to, from the renowned and invincible
Knight, the Knight of the Gigantic sa¬
bre: in the name of his Lord, Frederic
Marquis of Vicenza „ he demands the
Lady Isabella, daughter of that Prin¬
ce, whom thou hast basely and traite-
rously got into thy power, by bribing
her false guardians during his absence:
and he requires thee to resign the prin¬
cipality of Otranto, which thou hast
usurped from the said Lord Frederic,
the nearest of blood to the last rightful
Lord Alfonso the Good. If thou dost not
instantly comply with these just de¬
mands, he defies thee to single combat
to the last extremity. And so saying,
the Herald cast down his warder .

And where is this braggart, who
sends thee? said Manfred. At the di¬
stance of a league, said the Herald:

JJJ

he comes to make good his Lord’s claim
against thee, as he is a true Knight
and thou an usurper and ravisher.

Injurious as this challenge was,
Manfred reflected that it was not his
interest to provoke the Marquis. He
knew how well-founded the claim of
Frederic was; nor was this the first
time he had heard of it. Frederic's an¬
cestors had assumed the stile of Prin¬
ces of Otranto* from the death of Al¬
fonso the Good without issue; but
Manfred* his father, and grandfather,
had been too powerful for the house
of Vicenza to dispossess them. Frede¬
ric* a martial and amorous young Prin¬
ce , had married a beautiful young
Lady, of whom he was enamoured,
and who had died in childbed of Isa¬
bella, Her death affected him so much,
that he had taken the cross and gone
to the holy land, where he was woun-

Jf.2

cled in an engagement against the infi¬
dels 5 made prisoner , and reported to
be dead. When the news reached 1 Man¬
fred's ears , he bribed the guardians of
the Lady Isabella to deliver her up to
him as a bride for his son Conrad j by
which alliance he had proposed to
unite the claims of the two houses.
This motive 5 on Conrad's death, had
co-operated to make him so suddenly
resolve on espousing her himself; and
the same reflection determined him
now to endeavour at obtaining the coil¬
sent of Frederic to this marriage . A
like policy inspired him with the
thought of inviting Frederic's champion
into his castle, lest he should be infor¬
med of Isabella's flight, which he stric¬
tly enjoined his domestics not to dis¬
close to any of the Knight’s retinue .

Herald, said Manfred > as soon as
he had digested these reflections, re-

turn to thy master , and tell him, ere
we liquidate our differences by the
sword , Manfred would hold some con¬
verse with him. Bid him welcome to
my castle, where by my faith, as I
am a true Knight, he shall have cour¬
teous reception, and full security for
himself and followers . If we cannot
adjust our quarrel by amicable means,
I swear he shall depart in safety, and
shall have full satisfaction according
to the laws of arms : So help me God
and his holy Trinity! the Herald made
three obeisances and retired .

During this interview Jerome's mind
was agitated by a thousand contrary
passions . He trembled for the life of
his son, and his first thought was to
persuade Isabella to return to the cas¬
tle. Yet he was scarce less alarmed at
the thought of her union with Man¬
fred. He dreaded Hippolita's unboun-

decl submission to the will of her Lord;
and though he did not doubt but he
could alarm her piety not to consent
to a divorce, if he could get access to
her; yet should Manfred discover that
the obstruction came from him , it
might be equally fatal to Theodore. He
was impatient to know whence came
the Herald , who with so little mana¬
gement had questioned the title of Man¬
fred: yet he did not dare absent himself
from the convent, lest Isabella should
leave it, and her flight be imputed to
him. He returned disconsolately to the
monastery, uncertain on what conduct
to resolve. A Monk, who met him in
the porch and observed his melancholy
air, said, Alas! brother, is it then true
that we have lost our excellent Princess
Hippolita? The holy man started, and
cried, What meanest thou, brother! I
come this instant from the castle, and

JJ5

left her in perfect health. Mart ell i > re¬
plied the other Friar , passed by the
convent but a cpiarter of an hour ago
on his way from the castle, and repor¬
ted that her Highness was dead. All
our brethren are gone to the chapel to
pray for her happy transit to a better
life, and willed me to wait thy arrival.
They know thy holy attachment to
that good Lady, and are anxious for

the affliction it will cause in thee -

indeed we have all reason to weep; she
was a mother to our house — but this
life is but a pilgrimage; we must not
murmur— we shall all follow her! may
our end be like her’s ! Good brother ,
thou dreamest, said Jerome: I tell thee
I come from the castle , and left the
Princess well— where is the Lady Isa¬
bella? — Poor Gentlewoman ! replied
the Friar; I told her the sad news,
and offered her spiritual comfort; I re-

minded her of the transitory condition
of mortality , and advised her to take
the veil: I quoted the example of the

holy Princess Sancliia of Arrcigon -

Thy zeal was laudable , said Jerome
impatiently; but at present it was un¬
necessary: Hippolita is well — at least
I trust in the Lord she is ; I heard noth¬
ing to the contrary — yet methinks ,
the Prince’s earnestness — well , bro¬
ther ^ but where is the Lady Isabella?
I know not; said the Friar: She wept
much 5 and said she would retire to
her chamber. Jerome left his comrade
abruptly, and hastened to the Princess,
but she was not in her chamber. He
enquired of the domestics of the con¬
vent, but could learn no news of her.
He searched in vain throughout the
monastery and the church, and dispat¬
ched messengers round the neighbour¬
hood , to get intelligence if she had

been seen; but to no purpose. Nothing
could equal the good man’s perplexity.
He judged that Isabella ^ suspecting
Manfred of having precipitated his
wife’s death , had taken the alarm, and
withdrawn herself to some more secret
place of concealment. This new flight
would probably carry the Prince’s
fury to the height. The report of Hip ~
polita' s death, though it seemed almost
incredible, increased his consternation;
and though Isabella's escape bespoke
her aversion of Manfred for a husband,
Jerome could feel no comfort from it ,
while it endangered the life of his son.
He determined to return to the castle,
and made several of his brethren ac¬
company him to attest his innocence to
Manfred j, and, if necessary, join their
intercession with his for Theodore .

The Prince, in the mean time, had
passed into the court, and ordered the

jj8

gates of the castle to be flung open for
the reception of the stranger Knight
and his train. In a few minutes the
cavalcade arrived. First came two har¬
bingers with wands. Next a herald,
followed by two pages and two trum¬
pets . Then an hundred foot-guards .
These were attended by as many horse.
After them fifty footmen, cloathed in
scarlet and black, the colours of the
Knight. Then a led horse. Two heralds
on each side of a gentleman on horse¬
back bearing a banner with the arms
of Vicenza and Otranto quarterly — a
circumstance that much offended Man¬
fred - but he stifled his resentment.

Two more pages. The Knight’s confes¬
sor telling his beads. Fifty more foot¬
men clad as before. Two Knights ha¬
bited in complete armour, their beavers
down, comrades to the principal Knight.
The squires of the two Knights, car-

JJ9

rying their shields and devices . The
Knight’s own squire . An hundred gent¬
lemen bearing an enormous sword, and
seeming to faint under the weight of
it . The Knight himself on a chesnut
steed, in complete armour, his lance
in the rest, his face entirely concealed
by his vizor, which was surmounted
by a large plume of scarlet and black
feathers . Fifty foot -guards with drums
and trumpets closed the procession,
which wheeled off to the right and left
to make room for the principal Knight.

As soon as he approached the gate,
he stopped; and the herald advancing,
read again the words of the challenge.
Manfred’s eyes were fixed on the gi¬
gantic sword, and he scarce seemed to
attend to the cartel: But his attention
was soon diverted by a tempest of wind
that rose behind him. He turned and
beheld the plumes of the enchanted

mo.

helmet agitated in the same extraordi¬
nary manner as before . It required
intrepidity like Manfred's not to sink
under a concurrence of circumstances
that seemed to announce his fate . Yet
scorning in the presence of strangers
to betray the courage lie had always
manifested , he said boldly , Sir Knight,
whoever thou art I bid thee welcome .
If thou art of mortal mould, thy valour
shall meet its equal : And if thou art a
true Knight, thou wilt scorn to employ
sorcery to carry thy point . Be these
omens from heaven or hell, Manfred
trusts to the righteousness of his cause
and to the aid of St. Nicholas > who has
ever protected his house. Alight, Sir
Knight, and repose thyself. Tomorrow
thou shalt have a fair field; and heaven
befriend the juster side !

The Knight made no reply, but
dismounting, was conducted by Man ~

J2.J

fred to the great hall of the castle. As
they traversed the court , the Knight
stopped to gaze on the miraculous cas¬
que; and kneeling down, seemed to
pray inwardly for some minutes. Ris¬
ing, he made a sign to the Prince to
lead on. As soon as they entered the
hall, Manfred proposed to the stranger
to disarm, but the Knight shook his
head in token of refusal. Sir Knight,
said Manfred j, this is not courteous ;
but by my good faith I will not cross
thee; nor shalt thou have cause to com¬
plain of the Prince of Otranto . No
treachery is designed on my part; 1
hope none is intended on thine; here,
take my gage: (giving him his ring)
your friends and you shall enjoy the
laws of hospitality . Rest here, until
refreshments are brought: I will but
give orders for the accommodation of
your train , and return to you . The

three Knights bowed as accepting his
courtesy. Manfred directed the stran¬
ger’s retinue to be conducted to an ad¬
jacent hospital , founded by the Prin¬
cess Hippolita for the reception of pil¬
grims. As they made the circuit of the
court to return towards the gate , the
gigantic sword burst from the suppor¬
ters 5 and falling to the ground oppo¬
site to the helmet , remained immovea¬
ble. Manfred j almost hardened to pre¬
ternatural appearances, surmounted the
shock of this new prodigy; and return¬
ing to the hall, where by this time
the feast was ready, he invited his
silent guests to take their places. Man¬
fred j however ill his heart was at ease,
endeavoured to inspire the company
with mirth. He put several questions
to them, but was answered only by
signs . They raised their vizors but
sufficiently to feed themselves, and that

sparingly. Sirs, said the Prince , ye are
the first guests I ever treated within
these walls , who scorned to hold any
intercourse with me : Nor has it oft
been customary, I ween, for princes
to hazard their state and dignity against
strangers and mutes. You say you co¬
me in the name of Frederic of Vicenza ;
I have ever heard that he was a gal¬
lant and courteous Knight; nor would
he, I am bold to say, think it beneath
him to mix in social converse with a
Prince that is his equal, and not unk¬
nown by deeds in arms- — Still ye are
silent- — well! be it as it may— — by
the laws of hospitality and chivalry ye
are masters under this roof: Ye shall
do your pleasure — but come, give me
a goblet of wine; ye will not refuse to
pledge me to the healths of your fair
mistresses . The principal Knight sighed
and crossed himself, and was rising

from the board — Sir Knight , said
Manfred , what I said was but in sport:
I shall constrain you in nothing : Use
your good liking . Since mirth is not
your mood, let us be sad. Business
may hit your fancies better: Let us
withdraw; and hear if what I have to
unfold , may be better relished than
the vain efforts I have made for your
pastime .

Manfred then conducting the three
Knights into an inner chamber, shut
the door, and inviting them to be sea¬
ted, began thus, addressing himself to
the chief personage .

You corne , Sir Knight, as I under¬
stand , in the name of the Marquis of
Vicenza j to redemand the Lady Isa¬
bella his daughter, who has been con¬
tracted in the face of holy church to
my son, by the consent of her legal
guardians; and to require me to resign

J25

my dominions to your Lord, who gives
himself for the nearest of blood to Prin¬
ce Alfonso j whose soul God rest! I
shall speak to the latter article of your
demands first. You must know, your
Lord knows, that I enjoy the princi¬
pality of Otranto from my father Don
Manuel, as he received it from his fa¬
ther Don Ricardo . Alfonso y their pre¬
decessor, dying childless in the Holy
Land, bequeathed his estates to my
grandfather Don Ricardo , in conside¬
ration of his faithful services- - the

stranger shook his head— Sir Knight,
said Manfred warmly, Ricardo was a
valiant and upright man; he was a pious
man; witness his munificent foundation
of the adjoining church and two con¬
vents. He was peculiarly patronized by
St. Nicholas — my grandfather was in¬
capable — I say, Sir, Don Ricardo was
incapable — excuse me, your inter nip-

tion has disordered me. — I venerate
the memory of my grandfather — well!
Sirs 5 he held this estate; he held it by
his good sword and by the favour of
St. Nicholas — so did my father; and
so 5 Sirs, will I, come what come will
» — but Frederic j, your Lord, is nearest
in blood — I have consented to put my
title to the issue of the sword — does
that imply a vitious title ? — I might
have asked , where is Frederic your
Lord? Report speaks him dead in cap¬
tivity. You say, your actions say, he
lives — I question it not — I might,
Sirs, I might — but I do not. Other
Princes would bid Frederic take his
inheritance by force, if he can: They
would not stake their dignity on a sin¬
gle combat: They would not submit it
to the decision of unknown mutes ! —
pardon me, Gentlemen, I am too warm:
But suppose yourselves in my situa-

tion: As ye are stout Knights, would
it not move your choler to have your
own and the honour of your ancestors
called in question?— but to the point.
Ye require me to deliver up the Lady

Isabella - Sirs, I must ask if ye are

authorized to receive her? The Knight
nodded. Receive her — continued Man¬
fred ; well! you are authorized to re¬
ceive her - but, gentle Knight, may

I ask if you have full powers ? The
Knight nodded. 5Tis well; said Man¬
fred: Then hear what I have to offer
— ye see, Gentlemen, before you the
most unhappy of men! (he began to
weep) afford me your compassion; I
am intitled to it: Indeed I am. Know,
I have lost my only hope, my joy, the

support of my house - Conrad died

yes ter morning. The Knights discove¬
red signs of surprise. Yes, Sirs, fate
has disposed of my son. Isabella is at

liberty— Do you then restore her?
cried the chief Knight, breaking silen¬
ce. Afford me your patience: said Man¬
fred. I rejoice to find, by this testimo¬
ny of your good-will, that this matter
may be adjusted without blood. It is
no interest of mine dictates what little
I have farther to say. Ye behold in
me a man disgusted with the world :
The loss of my son has weaned me
from earthly cares . Power and great¬
ness have no longer any charms in my
eyes . I wished to transmit the scepter
I had received from my ancestors with
honour to my son- — but that is over !
Life itself is so indifferent to me, that
I accepted your defiance with joy : A
good Knight cannot go to the grave
with more satisfaction than when fall¬
ing in his vocation. Whatever is the
will of heaven, I submit; for alas!
Sirs, I am a man of many sorrows.

Manfred is no object of envy — —but
no doubt you are acquainted with my
story. The Knight made signs of igno¬
rance 5 and seemed curious to have
Manfred proceed. Is it possible, Sirs ,
continued the Prince , that my story
should be a secret to you? have you
heard nothing relating to me and the
Princess Hippolita? They shook their
heads! — -No! thus then, Sirs, it is.
You think me ambitious: Ambition,
alas ! is composed of more rugged ma¬
terials . If I were ambitious, I should
not for so many years have been a prey
to all the hell of conscientious scruples
— but I weary your patience: I will
be brief. Know then, that I have long
been troubled in mind on my union
with the Princess Hippolita. — —Oh!
Sirs, if ye were acquainted with that
excellent woman ! if ye knew that I
adore her like a mistress, and cherish

f3o

her as a friend — but man was not born
for perfect happiness! she shares my
scruples , and with her consent I have
brought this matter before the church,
for we are related within the for¬
bidden degrees. I expect every hour
the definitive sentence that must se¬
parate us for ever - I am sure you

feel for me - 1 see you do - par¬

don these tears! The Knights gazed on
each other , wondering where this
would end. Manfred continued. The
death of my son betiding while my
soul was under this anxiety, I thought
of nothing but resigning my dominions,
and retiring for ever from the sight of
mankind . My only difficulty was to
fix on a successor, who would be ten¬
der of my people, and to dispose of
the Lady Isabella ^ who is dear to me
as my own blood. I was willing to re¬
store the line of Alfonso? even in his

most distant kindred : And though ,
pardon me, I am satisfied it was his
will that Ricardo' s lineage should take
place of his own relations; yet where
was I to search for those relations? I
knew of none but Frederic your Lord;
he was a captive to the infidels , or
dead; and were he living , and at ho¬
me 5 would he quit the flourishing state
of Vicenza for the inconsiderable prin¬
cipality of Otranto? If he would not,
could I bear the thought of seeing a
hard unfeeling Viceroy set over my

poor faithful people? - for, Sirs, I

love my people, and thank heaven am
beloved by them — -but ye will ask ,
whither tends this long discourse? brie¬
fly then, thus, Sirs. Heaven in your
arrival seems to point out a remedy for
these difficulties and my misfortunes.
The Lady Isabella is at liberty; I shall
soon be so — I would submit to any

thing for the good of my people — were
it not the best, the only way to extin¬
guish the feuds between our families,
if I was to take the Lady Isabella to
wife — you start — but though Hippo -
lita* s virtues will ever be dear to me,
a Prince must not consider himself; he
is born for his people. — A servant at
that instant entering the chamber ap¬
prized Manfred that Jerome and seve¬
ral of his brethren demanded immedia¬
te access to him.

The Prince, provoked at this in¬
terruption, and fearing that the Friar
would discover to the strangers that
Isabella had taken sanctuary , was
going to forbid Jeromes entrance. But
recollecting that he was certainly arri¬
ved to notify the Princess’s return,
Manfred began to excuse himself to the
Knights for leaving them for a few mo¬
ments, but was prevented by the arri-

*33

val of the Friars. Manfred angrily re¬
primanded them for their intrusion,
and would have forced them back from
the chamber; but Jerome was too much
agitated to be repulsed . He declared
aloud the flight of Isabella ^ with pro¬
testations of his own innocence . Man¬
fred distracted at the news, and not
less at its coming to the knowledge of
the strangers, uttered nothing but in¬
coherent sentences , now upbraiding
the Friar, now apologizing to the
Knights, earnest to know what was
become of Isabella ^ yet equally afraid
of their knowing, impatient to pursue
her, yet dreading to have them join in
the pursuit. He offered to dispatch mes¬
sengers in quest of her,- — but the chief
Knight no longer keeping silence, re¬
proached Manfred in bitter terms for
his dark and ambiguous dealing, and
demanded the cause of Isabella's first

absence from the castle. Manfred j> ca¬
sting a stern look at Jerome > implying
a command of silence , pretended that
on Conrad’s death he had placed her
in sanctuary until he could determine
how to dispose of her. Jerome > who
trembled for his son’s life, did not dare
contradict this falshood, but one of his
brethren, not under the same anxiety,
declared frankly that she had fled to
their church in the preceeding night .
The Prince in vain endeavoured to stop
this discovery, which overwhelmed
him with shame and confusion. The
principal stranger, amazed at the con¬
tradictions he heard, and more than
half persuaded that Manfred had se¬
creted the Princess , notwithstanding
the concern he expressed at her flight,
rushing to the door, said, thou traitor-
Pririce! Isabella shall be found. Man¬
fred endeavoured to hold him , but the

*35

other Knights assisting their comrade,
he broke from the Prince, and hastened
into the court, demanding his atten¬
dants. Manfred, finding it vain to di¬
vert him from the pursuit, offered to
accompany him; and summoning his
attendants, and taking Jerome and so¬
me of the Friars to guide them, they
issued from the castle; Manfred priva¬
tely giving orders, to have the Knight’s
company secured, while to the Knight
he affected to dispatch a messenger to
require their assistance.

The company had no sooner quit¬
ted the castle, than Matilda , who felt
herself deeply interested for the young
peasant, since she had seen him con¬
demned to death in the hall, and whose
thoughts had been taken up with con¬
certing measures to save him, was in¬
formed by some of the female atten¬
dants that Manfred had dispatched all

his men various ways in pursuit of
Isabella. He had in his hurry given
this order in general terms, not mean¬
ing to extend it to the guard he had set
upon Theodore j but forgetting it. The
domestics, officious to obey so peremp¬
tory a Prince, and urged by their own
curiosity and love of novelty to join in
any precipitate chace, had to a man
left the castle . Matilda disengaged her¬
self from her women , stole up to the
black tower, and unbolting the door,
presented herself to the astonished
Theodore. Young man, said she, though
filial duty, and womanly modesty con¬
demn the step I am taking, yet holy
charity, surmounting all other ties,
justifies this act. Fly; the doors of thy
prison are open: My father and his do¬
mestics are absent; but they may soon
return: Be gone in safety; and may the
angels of heaven direct thy coujse!

*57

Thou art surely one of those angels!
said the enraptured Theodore: None
but a blessed saint could speak, could

act- - could look like thee! — may I

not know the name of my divine pro¬
tectress! methought thou namedst thy
father : Is it possible ! can Manfred's
blood feel holy pity ! — lovely Lady ,

thou answerest not - but how art

thou here thyself? why dost thou neg¬
lect thy own safety, and waste a thought
on a wretch like Theodore? let us fly
together: The life thou bestowest shall
be dedicated to thy defence. Alas! thou
mistakest; said Matilda j sighing: I am
Manfred's daughter, but no dangers
await me. Amazement! said Theodore:
But last night I blessed myself for yeild-
ing thee the service thy gracious com¬
passion so charitably returns me now .
Still thou art in an error; said the Prin¬
cess; but this is no time for explan a-

tion. Fly, virtuous youth, while it is
in my power to save thee : Should my
father return, thou and I both should
indeed have cause to tremble. How!
said Theodore; thinkest thou, charm¬
ing maid, that I will accept of life at
the hazard of aught calamitous to thee?
better I endured a thousand deaths, —
I run no risk , said Matilda ~j but by
thy delay. Depart; it cannot be known
that I assisted thy flight. Swear by
the saints above, said Theodore ^ that
thou canst not be suspected; else here
I vow to await whatever can befal me.
Oh! thou art too generous; said Ma¬
tilda; but rest assured that no suspi¬
cion can alight on me. Give me thy
beauteous hand in token that thou dost
not deceive me, said Theodore; and let
me bathe it with the warm tears of
gratitude, - Forbear; said the Prin¬

cess; this must not be. Alas! said Tlieo-

xlorej I have never known but calamity
until this hour- — perhaps shall never
know other fortune again: Suffer the
chaste raptures of holy gratitude: ’Tis
my soul would print its effusions on
thy hand. Forbear, and be gone: Said
Matilda: — How would Isabella ap¬
prove of seeing thee at my feet? Who
is Isabella ? said the young man with
surprize. Ah me! I fear, said the Prin¬
cess, I am serving a deceitful one! —
hast thou forgot thy curiosity this morn¬
ing? Thy looks, thy actions, all thy
beauteous self seems an emanation of
divinity, said Theodore > but thy words
are dark and mysterious , — speak ,
Lady; speak to thy servant’s compre¬
hension. —Thou understandest but too
well! said Matilda: But once more I
command thee to be gone: Thy blood,
which I may preserve, will be on my
head, if I waste the time in vain dis-

course. I go, Lady, said Theodore >
because it is thy will, and because I
would not bring the grey hairs of my
father with sorrow to the grave . Say
but , adored Lady , that I have thy

gentle pity - Stay; said Matilda; I

will conduct thee to the subterraneous
vault by which Isabella escaped; it
will lead thee to the church of St. Ni¬
cholas > where thou mayst take sanc¬
tuary. - What! said Theodore j was

it another, and not thy lovely self that
I assisted to find the subterraneous pas¬
sage? It was; said Matilda; but ask
no more : I tremble to see thee still
abide here: Fly to the sanctuary,— To
sanctuary said Theodore: No, Princess;
sanctuaries are for helpless damsels,
or for criminals. Theodore's soul is
free from guilt, nor will wear the ap¬
pearance of it. Give me a sword, Lady,
and thy father shall learn that Theo-

dore scorns an ignominious flight . Rash
youth! said Matilda „ thou wouldst
not dare to lift thy presumptuous arm
against the Prince of Otranto? Not
against thy father; indeed I dare not:
said Theodore : Excuse me? Lady; I
had forgotten 5— but could I gaze on
thee, and remember thou art sprung

from the tyrant Manfred ?~ - but he

is thy father, and from this moment
my injuries are buried in oblivion. A
deep and hollow groan, which seemed
to come from above, startled the Prin¬
cess and Theodore . Good heaven! we
are overheard! said the Princess. They
listened; but perceiving no farther noi¬
se, they both concluded it the effect of
pent-up vapours: And the Princess
preceding Theodore softly, carried him
to her father’s armory, where equip¬
ping him with a complete suit, he was
conducted by Matilda to the postern—

gate. Avoid the town, said the Prin¬
cess, and all the western side of the
castle: ’Tis there the search must be
making by Manfred and the strangers:
But hie thee to the opposite quarter.
Yonder behind that forest to the east
is a chain of rocks, hollowed into a la¬
byrinth of caverns that reach to the
seacoast. There thou mayst lie concea¬
led, till thou canst make signs to some
vessel to put on shore and take thee
off. Go! heaven be thy guide!' — and
sometimes in thy prayers remember — -
Matilda ! Theodore flung himself at her
feet, and seizing her lilly hand, which
with struggles she suffered him to kiss,
he vowed on the earliest opportunity
to get himself knighted, and fervently
intreated her permission to swear him¬
self eternally her knight - E’er the

princess could reply, a clap of thunder
was suddenly heard, that shook the

battlements. Theodore > regardless of
the tempest , would have urged his
suit; but the Princess , dismayed , re¬
treated hastily into the castle , and
commanded the youth to be gone with
an air that would not be disobeyed.
He sighed, and retired, but with eyes
fixed on the gate, until Matilda closing
it , put an end to an interview , in which,
the hearts of both had drunk so deeply
of a passion, which both now tasted
for the first time .

Theodore went pensively to the
convent, to acquaint his father with
his deliverance. There he learned the
absence of Jerome and the pursuit
that was making after the Lady Isa¬
bella ^ with some particulars of whose
story he now first became acquainted.
The generous galantry of his nature
prompted him to wish to assist her;
but the Monks could lend him no lights

J/f4

to guess at the route she had taken.
He was not tempted to wander far in
search of her, for the idea of Matilda
had imprinted itself so strongly on his
heart , that he could not bear to absent
himself at much distance from her abo¬
de. The tenderness Jerome had expres¬
sed for him concurred to confirm this
reluctance ; and he even persuaded
himself that filial affection was the
chief cause of his hovering between
the castle and monastery. Until Jero¬
me should return at night, Theodore
at length determined to repair to the
forest that Matilda had pointed out to
him . Arriving there , he sought the
gloomiest shades , as best suited to the
pleasing melancholy that reigned in
his mind. In this mood he roved in¬
sensibly to the caves which had for¬
merly served as a retreat to hermits,
and were now reported round the

J4-5

country to be haunted by evil spirits .
He recollected to have heard this tra¬
dition; and being of a brave and adven¬
turous disposition he willingly indul¬
ged his curiosity in exploring the secret
recesses of this labyrinth . He had not
penetrated far before he thought he
heard the steps of some person who
seemed to retreat before him. Theodo¬
re > though firmly grounded in all our
holy faith enjoins to be believed , had
no apprehension that good men were
abandoned without cause to the malice
of the powers of darkness. He thought
the place more likely to be infested by
robbers than by those infernal agents
who are reported to molest and bewil¬
der travellers. He had long burned
with impatience to approve his valour
- drawing his sabre, he marched se¬
dately onwards, still directing his steps,
as the imperfect rustling sound before

him led the way. The armour he wore
was a like indication to the person
who avoided him. Theodore now con¬
vinced that he was not mistaken ,. re¬
doubled his pace 5 and evidently gained
on the person that fled, whose haste
increasing, Theodore came up just as
a woman fell breathless before him.
He hasted to raise her, but her terror
was so great that he apprehended she
would faint in his arms. He used every
gentle word to dispel her alarms, and
assured her that far from injuring, he
would defend her at the peril of his
life. The Lady recovering her spirits
from his courteous demeanour , and
gazing on her protector, said, Sure I
have heard that voice before! Not to
my knowledge, replied Theodore ^ un¬
less as I conjecture thou art the Lady
Isabella j- — Merciful heaven! cried she,
thou art not sent in quest of me, art

147

thou? and saying those words , she
threw herself at his feet, and besought
him not to deliver her up to Manfred .

To Manfred! cried Theodore - no ,

Lady 5 I have once already delivered
thee from his tyranny, and it shall fare
hard with me now, but I will place
thee out of the reach of his daring. Is
it possible, said she, that thou shouldst
be the generous unknown whom I met
last night in the vault of the castle?
sure thou art not a mortal, but my
guardian angel : On my knees let me

thank - hold , gentle Princess, said

Theodore j nor demean thyself before
a poor and friendless young man. If
heaven has selected me for thy deli¬
verer, it will accomplish its work, and
strengthen my arm in thy cause — -but
come. Lady, we are too near the mouth
of the cavern; let us seek its inmost
recesses: I can have no tranquillity till

I have placed thee beyond the reach
of danger . Alas ! what mean you , Sir?
said she. Though all your actions are
noble 5 though your sentiments speak
the purity df your soul , is it fitting that
I should accompany you alone into these
perplexed retreats? should we be found
together , what would a censorious
world think of my conduct? I respect
your virtuous delicacy , said Theodo¬
re; nor do you harbour a suspicion that
wounds my honour. I meant to con¬
duct you into the most private cavity
of these rocks, and then at the hazard
of my life to guard their entrance aga¬
inst every living thing. Besides, Lady,
continued he drawing a deep sigh, beau¬
teous and all perfect as your form is,
and though my wishes are not guilt¬
less of aspiring, know, my soul is de¬
dicated to another; and although - a

sudden noise prevented Theodore from

proceeding . They soon distinguished
these sounds 5 Isabella ! what ho! Isa¬
bella!— — the trembling Princess relap¬
sed into her former agony of fear.
Theodore endeavoured to encourage
her 5 but in vain . He assured her he
would die rather than suffer her to re¬
turn under Manfred's power; and beg¬
ging her to remain concealed , he went
forth to prevent the person in search
of her from approaching .

At the mouth of the cavern he found
an armed Knight , discoursing with a
peasant, who assured him he had seen
a lady enter the passes of the rock . The
Knight was preparing to seek her ,
when Theodore s placing himself in his
way, with his sword drawn, sternly
forbad him at his peril to advance .
And who art thou who darest to cross
my way? said the Knight haughtily .
One who does not dare more than he

J50

will perform, said Theodore . I seek
the Lady Isabella ; said the Knight,
and understand she has taken refuge
among these rocks. Impede me not, or
thou wilt repent having provoked my
resentment. Thy purpose is as odious,
as thy resentment is contemptible, said
Theodore. Return whence thou earnest,
or we shall soon know whose resent¬
ment is most terrible . The stranger ,
who was the principal Knight that had
arrived from the marquis of Vicenza >
had galloped from Manfred as he was
busied in getting information of the
Princess, and giving various orders to
prevent her falling into the power of
the three Knights. Their chief had sus-
pected Manfred of being privy to the
Princess’s absconding; and this insult
from a man, who he concluded was
stationed by that Prince to secrete her,
confirming his suspicions, he made no

reply, but discharging a blow with his
sabre at Theodore „ would soon have
removed all obstruction, if Theodore j
who took him for one of Manfred's
captains, and who had no sooner gi¬
ven the provocation than prepared to
support it, had not received the stroke
on his shield. The valour that had so
long been smothered in his breast ,
broke forth at once; he rushed impe¬
tuously on the Knight, whose pride
and wrath were not less powerful in¬
centives to hardy deeds. The combat
was furious , but not long : Theodore
wounded the Knight in three several
places, and at last disarmed him as
he fainted by the loss of blood . The
peasant, who had fled on the first on¬
set, had given the alarm to some of
Manfred's domestics, who by his orders
were dispersed through the forest in
pursuit of Isabella . They came up as

tlie Knight fell 5 whom they soon disco¬
vered to be the noble stranger. Theo¬
dore j, notwithstanding his hatred to
Manfred could not behold the victory
he had gained without emotions of pity
and generosity : But he was more tou¬
ched ? when he learned the quality of
his adversary , and was informed that
he was no retainer , but an enemy of
Manfred . He assisted the servants of
the latter in disarming the Knight , and
in endeavouring to staunch the blood
that flowed from his wounds. The
Knight recovering his speech, said in
a faint and faultering voice, generous
foe , we have both been in an error : I
took thee for an instrument of the ty¬
rant; I perceive thou hast made the
like mistake — It is too late for excuses

—I faint - if Isabella is at hand -

call her- — I have important secrets to
— fie is dying! said one of the atten-

*53

clants; has nobody a crucifix about
them? Andrea y do thou pray over him
— Fetch some water., said Theodore,
and pour it down his throat 5 while I

hasten to the Princess - saying this 5

he flew to Isabella , and in few words
told her modestly 5 that he had been so
unfortunate by mistake as to wound
a gentleman from her father’s court 5
who wished e’er he died to impart so¬
mething of consequence to her. The
Princess 5 who had been transported at
hearing the voice of Theodore, as he
called to her to come forth 9 was aston¬
ished at what she heard. Suffering
herself to be conducted by Theodore ^
the new proof of whose valour recal¬
led her dispersed spirits , she came
where the bleeding Knight lay speech¬
less on the ground — but her fears re¬
turned ? when she beheld the domestics
of Manfred . She would again have

J54

fled 5 if Theodore had not made her ob¬
serve that they were unarmed , and
had not threatened them with instant
death, if they should dare to seize the
Princess . The stranger , opening his
eyes, and beholding a woman, said —

Art thou - pray tell me truly - art

thou Isabella of Vicenza? I am; said
she: good heaven restore thee ! — Then

thou* - then thou - said the Knight,

struggling for utterance - seest — thy

father give me one Oh! amaze¬
ment! horror! what do I hear! what
do I see ! cried Isabella . My father !
you my father! how came you here,

Sir, for heaven’s sake speak! - oh!

run for help, or he will expire! — ’Tis
most true, said the wounded Knight,
exerting all his force; I am Frederic
thy father — yes, I came to deliver thee

— It will not be - give me a parting

kiss, and take - Sir, said Theodore j,

1 55

do not exhaust yourself: suffer us to
convey you to the castle — -To the
castle! said Isabella ; is there no help
nearer than the castle? would you ex¬
pose my father to the tyrant? if he goes
thither , I dare not accompany him—
and yet, can I leave him! My child,
said Frederic j it matters not for me
whither I am carried: A few minutes

will place me beyond danger - -but

while I have eyes to doat on thee, for¬
sake me not, dear Isabella ! This bra¬
ve Knight— I know not who he is,

will protect thy innocence - Sir, you

will not abandon my child, will you!
Theodore shedding tears over his vic¬
tim , and vowing to guard the Princess
at the expence of his life, persuaded
Frederic to suffer himself to be conduc¬
ted to the castle. They placed him on
a horse belonging to one of the domes¬
tics , after binding up his wounds as

well as they were able. Theodore mar¬
ched by his side; and the afflicted Isa¬
bella ^ who could not bear to quit him?
followed mournfully behind .

J57

CHAPTER IV.

T'he sorrowful troop no sooner arri¬
ved at the castle , than they were met
by Hippolita and Matilda , whom Isa¬
bella had sent one of the domestics be¬
fore to advertise of their approach .
The Ladies causing Frederic to be con¬
veyed into the nearest chamber , reti¬
red, while the surgeons examined his
wounds. Matilda blushed at seeing
Theodore and Isabella together ; but
endeavoured to conceal it by embrac¬
ing the latter, and condoling with her
on her father’s mischance. The sur¬
geons soon came to acquaint Hippolita
that none of the marquis’s wounds were
dangerous; and that he was desirous

of seeing his daughter and the Princes¬
ses . Theodore, under pretence of ex¬
pressing his joy at being freed from his
apprehensions of the combat being fatal
to Frederic, could not resist the impul¬
se of following Matilda. Her eyes were
so often cast down on meeting his, that
Isabella j who regarded Theodore as
attentively as he gazed on Matilda,
soon divined who the object was that
he had told her in the cave engaged
his affections. While this mute scene
passed , Hippolita demanded of Frede¬
ric the cause of his having taken that
mysterious course for reclaiming his
daughter; and threw in various apolo¬
gies to excuse her Lord for the match
contracted between their children .
Frederic, however incensed against
Manfred, was not insensible to the
courtesy and benevolence of Hippoli¬
ta: But he was still more struck with

J59

the lovely form of Matilda . Wishing
to detain them by his bedside, he infor-
med Hippolita of his story . He told her,
that , while prisoner to the infidels ,
he had dreamed that his daughter , of
whom he had learned no news since
his captivity, was detained in a castle,
where she was in danger of the most
dreadful misfortunes : And that if he
obtained his liberty, and repaired to
a wood near Joppa > he would learn
more. Alarmed at this dream, and in¬
capable of obeying the direction given
by it, his chains became more grievous
than ever. But while his thoughts were
occupied on the means of obtaining his
liberty, he received the agreeable news
that the confederate Princes who were
warring in Palestine > had paid his
ransom. He instantly set out for the
wood that had been marked in his
dream. For three days he and his at-

tendants had wandered in the forest
without seeing a human form : But on
the evening of the third they came to
a cell, in which they found a venera¬
ble hermit in the agonies of death. Ap¬
plying rich cordials, they brought the
saint-like man to his speech. My sons,
said he, I am bounden to your chari¬
ty — but it is in vain — I am going to

my eternal rest- - yet I die with the

satisfaction of performing the will of
heaven. When first I repaired to this
solitude, after seeing my country be¬
come a prey to unbelievers — it is alas!
above fifty years since I was witness
to that dreadful scene! St. Nicholas
appeared to me, and revealed a secret,
which he bad me never disclose to
mortal man, but on my deathbed. This
is that tremendous hour, and ye are
no doubt t^e chosen warrlours. to
whom I was ordered to reveal my

l6f

trust. As soon as ye have done the last
offices to this wretched corse, dig under
the seventh tree on the left hand of
this poor cave , and your pains will —
Oh ! good heaven receive my soul !
With those words the devout man
breathed his last. By break of day,
continued Frederic , when we had com¬
mitted the holy relicks to earth, we
dug according to direction — but what
was our astonishment, when about the
depth of six feet we discovered an

enormous sabre - the very weapon

yonder in the court . On the blade ,
which was then partly out of the scab¬
bard, though since closed by our efforts
in removing it, were written the follow¬
ing lines - -no; excuse me. Madam,

added the Marquis, turning to Hippo -
litdj, if I forbear to repeat them : I res¬
pect your sex and rank, and would not
be guilty of offending your ear with

j6.2

sounds injurious to ought that is dear
to you - He paused. Hippolita trem¬

bled . She did not doubt but Frederic
was destined by heaven to accomplish
the fate that seemed to threaten her
house v Looking with anxious fondness
at Matilda ^ a silent tear stole down
her cheek : But recollecting herself, she
said; Proceed, my Lord: Heaven does
nothing in vain: Mortals must receive
its divine behests with lowliness and
submission. It is our part to deprecate
its wrath, or bow to its decrees. Repeat
the sentence, my Lord; we listen resi¬
gned . Frederic was grieved that he
had proceeded so far . The dignity and
patient firmness of Hippolita penetra¬
ted him with respect, and the tender
silent affection with which the Princess
and her daughter regarded each other ,
melted him almost to tears. Yet ap¬
prehensive that his forbearance to obey,

j6s

would be more alarming, he repeated
in a faltering and low voice the follow¬
ing lines:

Where'er a casque that suits this sword is found ,
With perils is thy daughter compass'd round *
AlfonsoV blood alone can save the maidv
And quiet a long restless Prince's shade

What is there in these lines, said Theo¬
dore impatiently , that affects these
Princesses? why were they to he shoc¬
ked by a mysterious delicacy, that has
so little foundation? Your words are
rude, young man, said the Marquis;
and tho’ fortune has favoured you on¬
ce - My honoured Lord, said Isabel¬

la j who resented Theodores warmth,
which she perceived was dictated by
his sentiments for Matilda j discompose
not yourself for the glosing of a pea¬
sant’s son: He forgets the reverence he
owes you; but he is not accustomed—
Hippolita ; concerned at the heat that

had arisen, cheeked Theodore for his
boldness, but with an air acknowledg¬
ing his zeal; and changing the conver¬
sation, demanded of Frederic where
he had left her Lord? As the Marquis
was going to reply , they heard a noise
without , and rising to inquire the
cause Manfred^ Jerome ; and part of
the troop, who had met an imperfect
rumour of what had happened, ente¬
red the chamber. Manfred advanced
hastily towards Frederic s bed to con¬
dole with him on his misfortune , and
to learn the circumstances of the com¬
bat, when starting in an agony of terror
and amazement, he cried, Ha! what
art thou? thou dreadful spectre! is my

hour come? - My dearest, gracious

Lord, cried Hippolita, clasping him in
her arms, what is it you see? why do
you fix your eye -balls thus?— -What!
cried Manfred breathless — dost thou

J65

see nothings Hippolita? is this ghastly
phantom sent to me alone — -to me,

who dicl not - For mercy’s sweetest

self, my Lord, said Hippolita ^ resume
your soul, command your reason. There

is none here, but us, your friends - -

What is not that Alfonso? cried Man¬
fred: Dost thou not see him? can it be
my brain’s delirium?- — This! my Lord,
said Hippolita ; this is Theodore 3 the
youth who has been so unfortunate—
Theodore ! said Manfred mournfully,
and striking his forehead- - Theodo¬

re j or a phantom, he has unhinged
the soul of Manfred — but how comes
he here? and how comes he in armour?
I believe he went in search of Isabel¬
la; said Hippolita. Of Isabella! said
Manfred j relapsing into rage- — yes ,
yes, that is not doubtful — —but how
did he escape from durance in which I
left him? was it Isabella j or this hy-

j66

pocritical old Friar, that procured his

enlargement? - And would a parent

he criminal , my Lord , said Theodore >
if he meditated the deliverance of his
child? Jerome j amazed to hear himself
in a manner accused by his son, and
without foundation , knew not what
to think . He could not comprehend ,
how Theodore had escaped, how he
came to be armed , and to encounter
Frederic . Still he would not venture
to ask any questions that might tend
to inflame Manfred's wrath against his
son. Jerome's silence convinced Man¬
fred that he had contrived Theodore's
release — And is it thus, thou ungrate¬
ful old man, said the Prince, address¬
ing himself to the Friar, that thou re¬
pay est mine and Ilippolita's bounties?
And not content with traversing my
heart’s nearest wishes, thou armest thy
bastard, and bringest him into my own

k

castle to insult me! My Lord , said
Theodore > you wrong my father : Nor
lie nor I are capable of harbouring a
thought against your peace. Is it inso¬
lence thus to surrender myself to your
Highness’s pleasure? added he, laying
his sword respectfully at Manfred's
feet. Behold my bosom; strike, my
Lord, if you suspect that a disloyal
thought is lodged there . There is not
a sentiment engraven on my heart ,
that does not venerate you and yours .
The grace and fervour with which
Theodore uttered these words, interes¬
ted every person present in his favour.
Even Manfred was touched— yet still
possessed with his resemblance to Al¬
fonso y his admiration was dashed with
secret horror. Rise; said he; thy life
is not my present purpose.*— — But tell
me thy history, and how thou earnest
connected with this old traitor here.

My Lord, said Jerome eagerly— Peace!
impostor ! said Manfred ; I will not
have him prompted. My Lord, said
Theodore > I want no assistance : My
story is very brief. I was carried at
five years of age to Algiers with my
mother , who had been taken by cor¬
sairs from the coast of Sicily . She died
of grief in less than a twelvemonth- —
the tears gushed from Jerome's eyes ,
on whose countenance sl thousand an¬
xious passions stood expressed . Before
she died , continued Theodore > she
bound a writing about my arm under
my garments , which told me I was the

son of the Count Falcono.ra - - It is

most true, said Jerome; I am that
wretched father — Again 1 enjoin thee
silence; said Manfred: Proceed. I re¬
mained in slavery, said Theodore j until
within these two years, when attend¬
ing on my master in his cruizes, I was

delivered by a Christian vessel, which
overpowered the pirate; and discover¬
ing myself to the captain, he generous¬
ly put me on shore in Sicily • - but

alas! instead of finding a father, I learn¬
ed that his estate, which was situat¬
ed on the coast, had, during his ab¬
sence, been laid waste by the Rover,
who had carried my mother and me
into captivity: That his castle had been
burnt to the ground, and that my father
on his return had sold what remained,
and was retired into religion in the
kingdom of Naples > but where no man
could inform me . Destitute and friend¬
less, hopeless almost of attaining the
transport of a parent’s embrace, I took
the first opportunity of setting sail for
Naples j, from whence, within these six
days, I wandered into this province,
still supporting myself by the labour
of my hands; nor until yestermorn did

I believe that heaven had reserved any
lot for me but peace of mind and con¬
tented poverty . This , my Lord , is
Theodore s story. I am blessed beyond
my hope in finding a father ; I am un¬
fortunate beyond my desert in having
incurred your Highness’s displeasure .
He ceased . A murmur of approbation
gently arose from the audience. This
is not all; said Frederic: I am bound
in honour to add what he suppresses .
Though he is modest, I must be gene¬
rous - he is one of the bravest youths

on Christian ground. He is warm too;
and from the short knowledge I have
of him, I will pledge myself for his ve¬
racity: If what he reports of himself
were not true, he would not utter it
- — and for me, youth, I honour a frank¬
ness which becomes thy birth . But
now , and thou didst offend me : yet
the noble blood which flows in thy

veins ? may well be allowed to boil
out 5 when it has so recently traced
itself to its source . Come , my Lord
(turning to Manfred ) if I can pardon
him 5 surely you may : It is not the
youth’s fault , if you took him for a
spectre. This bitter taunt galled the
soul of Manfred. If beings from another
world, replied he haughtily, have power
to impress my mind with awe, it js
more than living man can do ; nor could
a stripling’s arm — My Lord, interrupt¬
ed Hippolita j, your guest has occasion
for repose: Shall we not leave him to
his rest? Saying this, and taking Man¬
fred by the hand, she took leave of
Frederic > and led the company forth.
The Prince, not sorry to quit a con¬
versation , which recalled to mind the
discovery he had made of his most se¬
cret sensations , suffered himself to be
conducted to his own apartment , after

/

J?2

permitting Theodore > tho’ under engage¬
ment to return to the castle on the
morrow (a condition the young man
gladly accepted) to retire with his
father to the convent . Matilda and
Isabella, were too much occupied with
their own reflections , and too little con¬
tent with each other, to wish for far¬
ther converse that night. They sepa¬
rated each to her chamber, with more
expressions of ceremony and fewer of
affection than had passed between them
since their childhood.

. f . •

If they parted with small cordiali¬
ty, they did but meet wijth greater im¬
patience, as soon as the sun was risen.
Their minds were in a situation that
excluded sleep, and each recollected a
thousand questions which she wished
she had put to the other overnight.
Matilda reflected that Isabella had
been twice delivered by Theodore in

J73

very critical situations , which she
could not believe accidental. His eyes,
it was true, had been fixed on her in
Frederic's chamber ; but that might
have been to disguise his passion for
Isabella from the fathers of both . It

were better to clear this up- - She

wished to knowT the truth, lest she
should wrong her friend by entertain¬
ing a passion for Isabella's lover. Thus
jealousy prompted , and at the same
time borrowed an excuse from friends¬
hip to justify its curiosity.

Isabella j, not less restless, had bet¬
ter foundation for her suspicions. Both
Theodore's tongue and eyes had told

her his heart was engaged - it was

true — yet perhaps Matilda might not

correspond to his passion - she had

ever appeared insensible to love: All
her thoughts were set on heaven — why
did I dissuade her? said Isabella , to

herself : I am punished for my genero¬
sity — but when did they meet? where?
- - it cannot be : I have deceived my¬
self — perhaps last night was the first

time they ever beheld each other - it

must be some other object that has

prepossessed his affections - if it is, I

am not so unhappy as I thought ; if it
is not my friend Matilda ■ — how ! can
I stoop to wish for the affection of a
man , who rudely and unnecessarily
acquainted me with his indifference ?
and that at the very moment in which
common courtesy demanded at least
expressions of civility. I will go to my
dear Matilda ^ who will confirm me in

this becoming pride - man is false —

I will advise with her on taking the
veil: She will rejoice to find me in this
disposition; and I will acquaint her
that I no longer oppose her inclination
for the cloister. In this frame of mind,

*75

and determined to open her heart en¬
tirely to Matilda i she went to that
Princess’s chamber , whom she found
already dressed , and leaning pensive¬
ly on her arm . This attitude, so cor¬
respondent to what she felt herself, re¬
vived Isabella's suspicions, and destroy¬
ed the confidence she had purposed
to place in her friend . They blushed
at meeting , and were too much novices
to disguise their sensations with ad¬
dress. After some unmeaning questions
and replies, Matilda demanded of Isa¬
bella the cause of her flight ? The lat¬
ter , who had almost forgotten Man¬
fred's passion, so entirely was she oc¬
cupied by her own, concluding that
Matilda referred to her last escape
from the convent, which had occasion¬
ed the events of the preceding even¬
ing, replied, Mart ell i brought word to
the convent that your mother was dead

—Oh! saicl Matilda > interrupting her,
Bianca lias explained that mistake to
me: on seeing me faint , she cried out,
the Princess is dead! and Martelli who
had come for the usual dole to the cas¬
tle — — And what made you faint? said
Isabella j, indifferent to the rest. Ma¬
tilda blushed, and stammered— my
father — he was sitting in judgment on
a criminal - What criminal? said Isa¬

bella eagerly — A young man; said Ma¬
tilda - 1 believe — I think it was that

young man that - What, Theodore ?

said Isabella. Yes; answered she; I
never saw him before; I do not know
how he had offended my father — but
as he has been of service to you , I am
glad my Lord has pardoned him— —
Served me? replied Isabella; do you
term it serving me, to wound my father,
and almost occasion his death! Though
it is but since yesterday that I am bles-

m

seel with knowing a parent , I hope
Matilda does not think I am such a
stranger to filial tenderness as not to
resent the boldness of that audacious
youth, and that it is impossible for me
ever to feel any affection for one who
dared to lift his arm against the author
of my being. No, Matilda > my heart
abhors him; and if you still retain the
friendship for me that you have vowed
from your infancy , you will detest a
man who has been on the point of mak¬
ing me miserable for ever. Matilda
held down her head, and replied; I
hope my dearest Isabella does not doubt
her Matilda's friendship: I never be¬
held that youth until yesterday; he is
almost a stranger to me: But as the sur¬
geons have pronounced your father out
of danger , you ought not to harbour
uncharitable resentment against one,
who I am persuaded did not know the

178

Marquis was related to you. You plead
liis cause very pathetically , said Isa¬
bella j considering he is so much a
stranger to you! I am mistaken, or he
returns your charity. What mean you?
said Matilda . Nothing: Said Isabella >
repenting that she had given Matilda
a hint of Theodore' § inclination for her.
Then changing the discourse, she asked
Matilda what occasioned Manfred to
take Theodore for a spectre? Bless me,
said Matilda, did not you observe his
extreme resemblance to the portrait of
Alfonso in the gallery? I took notice
of it to Bianca even before I saw him
in armour; hut with the helmet on, he
is the very image of that picture . I do
not much observe pictures; said Isa¬
bella : Much less have I examined this
young man so attentively as you seem
to have done- — —ah! Matilda > your
heart is in danger - but let me warn

J79

you as a friend — die lias owned to me
that he is in love; it cannot be with
you, for yesterday was the first time
you ever met— was it not? Certainly:
replied Matilda ; but why does my
dearest Isabella conclude from any
thing I have said, that — she paused —
then continuing; He saw you first, and
I am far from having the vanity to
think that my little portion of charms
could engage a heart devoted to you —
may you be happy, Isabella > whatever
is the fate of Matilda ! My lovely friend,

said Isabella y whose heart was too

*

honest to resist a kind expression, it is
you that Theodore admires; I saw it; I
am persuaded of it; nor shall a thought
of my own happiness suffer me to in¬
terfere with yours . This frankness
drew tears from the gentle Matilda ;
and jealousy that for a moment had
raised a coolness between these amia«

ble maidens , soon gave way to the na¬
tural sincerity and candour of their
souls . Each confessed to the other the
impression that Theodore had made on
her; and this confidence was followed
by a struggle of generosity , each in¬
sisting on yielding her claim to her
friend. At length, the dignity of Isa¬
bella's virtue reminding her of the pre¬
ference which Theodore had almost
declared for her rival, made her deter¬
mine to conquer her passion, and cede
the beloved object to her friend.

During this contest of amity, Hip-
polita entered her daughter’s chamber.
Madam, said she to Isabella , you have
so much tenderness for Matilda , and
interest yourself so kindly in whatever
affects our wretched house, that I can
have no secrets with my child , which
are not proper for you to hear. The
Princesses were albattention and an-

xiety. Know then, Madam, continued
Hippolita j and you, my dearest Ma¬
tilda ; that being convinced by all the
events of these two last ominous days,
that heaven purposes the sceptre of
Otranto should pass from Manfred's
hands into those of the Marquis Fre¬
deric j I have been perhaps inspired
with the thought of averting our total
destruction by the union of our rival
houses. With this view I have been
proposing to Manfred my Lord to ten¬
der this dear, dear child to Frederic

your father - Me to Lord Frederic /

cried Matilda - good heavens! my

gracious mother — and have you named
it to my father? I have: Said Hippoli-
tct: He listened benignly to my propo¬
sal , and is gone to break it to the Mar¬
quis . Ah ! wretched Princess ! cried
Isabella; what hast thou done! what
ruin has thy inadvertent goodness been

preparing for thy self, for me, and for
Matilda! Ruin from me to you and to
my child! said Hippolita ; what can
this mean? Alas! said Isabella j the
purity of your own heart prevents your
seeing the depravity of others . Man¬
fred j your Lord , that impious man —
Hold; said Hippolita j you must not in
my presence, young Lady, mention
Manfred with disrespect : He is my

lord and husband, and - Will not

long be so, said Isabella > if his wicked
purposes can be carried into execution ,
This language amazes me; said Hippo¬
lita . Your feeling, Isabella is warm:
but until this hour I never knew it;
betray you into intemperance. What
deed of Manfred authorizes you to treat
him as a murderer, an assassin? Thou
virtuous , and too credulous Princess !
replied Isabella ; it is not thy life he
aims at — it is to separate himself from

383

thee! to divorce thee! to — To divorce
me! To divorce my mother! cried Hip -
polita and Matilda at once — -Yes;
said Isabella ; and to complete his cri¬
me, he meditates - 1 cannot speak it!

What can surpass what thou hast al¬
ready uttered? said Matilda . Hippo -
lita was silent . Grief choaked her
speech; and the recollection of Man¬
fred's late ambiguous discourses con¬
firmed what she heard . Excellent ,
dear Lady ! Madam ! Mother ! cried
Isabella j flinging herself at Hippolita9 s
feet in a transport of passion; trust
me, believe me, I will die a thousand
deaths sooner than consent to injure

you, than yield to so odious- - oh! —

This is too much! cried Hippolita:
What crimes does one crime suggest !
rise, dear Isabella ; I do not doubt your
virtue. Oh! Matilda > this stroke is too
heavy for thee! weep not, my child;

and not a murmur, I charge thee. Re¬
member, he is thy father still! - But

you are my mother too; said Matilda
fervently; and you are virtuous, you

are guiltless ! - Oh! must not I, must

not I complain? You must not: said
Hippolita — come, all will yet be well.
Manfred , in the agony for the loss of
thy brother , knew not what he said:
perhaps Isabella misunderstood him:
His heart is good — and, my child, thou
knowest not all! There is a destiny
hangs over us; the hand of Providence
is stretched out — Oh! could I but save
thee from the wreck! — yes, continued
she in a firmer tone; perhaps the sacri¬
fice of myself may atone for all — I will
go and offer myself to this divorce — -
it boots not what becomes of me. I
will withdraw into the neighbouring
monastery, and waste the remainder
of life in prayers and tears for my child

and - the Prince! Thou art as much

too good for this world, said Isabella ,

as Manfred is execrable - but think

not, Lady, that thy weakness shall
determine for me. I swear, hear me
all ye angels— Stop, I adjure thee;
cried Hippolita: Remember thou dost
iiot depend on thyself; thou hast a

father - My father is too pious, too

noble, interrupted Isabella , to com¬
mand an impious deed . But should he
command it; can a father enjoin a cur¬
sed act? I was contracted to the son,

can I wed the father?- - no. Madam,

no; force should not drag me to Man -
f red's hated bed. I loath him, I abhor
him: Divine and human laws forbid—
and my friend, my dearest Matilda !
would I wound her tender soul by in¬
juring her adored mother? my own
mother — I never have known another
—Oh! she is the mother of both ! cried

j86

Matilda: Can we, can we, Isabella ,
adore her too much? My lovely child¬
ren, said the touched Hippolita > your
tenderness over -powers me- — but I
must not give way to it. It is not ours
to make election for ourselves : Heaven,
our fathers , and our husbands must
decide for us. Have patience until you
hear what Manfred and Frederic have
determined . If the Marquis accepts
Matilda's hand, I know she will rea¬
dily obey . Heaven may interpose and
prevent the rest. What means my child?
continued she, seeing Matilda fall at
her feet with a flood of speechless

tears - but no; answer me not, my

daughter: I must not hear a word aga¬
inst the pleasure of thy father . Oh !
doubt not my obedience, my dreadful
obedience to him and to you! said Ma¬
tilda: but can 1 5 most respected of
women, can I experience all this ten-

derness , this world of goodness, and
conceal a thought from the best of mo¬
thers? What art thou going to utter?
said Isabella trembling . Recollect thy¬
self, Matilda. No, Isabella ^ said the
Princess, I should not deserve this in¬
comparable parent, if the inmost re¬
cesses of my soul harboured a thought
without her permission— nay , I have
offended her; I have suffered a passion
to enter my heart without her avowal

■ - but here I disclaim it; here I vow

to heaven and her - My child! my

child! said Hippolita ^ what words are
these! what new calamities has fate in
store for us! Thou, a passion! Thou,
in this hour of destruction — Oh! I see
all my guilt! said Matilda. I abhor
myself, if I cost my mother a pang.
She is the dearest thing I have on earth
— oh! I will never, never behold him
more! Isabella , said Hippolita ^ thou

j88

art conscious to this unhappy secret ,
whatever it is. Speak- — What! cried
Matilda j, have I so forfeited my mo¬
ther’s love ? that she will not permit
me even to speak my own guilt? oh!
wretched , wretched Matilda ! Thou
art too cruel; said Isabella to Hippo-
lit a : Canst thou behold this anguish
of a virtuous mind, and not commise¬
rate it? Not pity my child! said Hip-
polita > catching Matilda in her arms —
Oil! I know she is good, she is all vir¬
tue j all tenderness , and duty. I do
forgive thee, my excellent, my only
hope! The Princesses then revealed to
Hippolita their mutual inclination for
Theodore „ and the purpose of Isabella
to resign him to Matilda. Hippolita
blamed their imprudence, and shewed
them the improbability that either fa¬
ther would consent to bestow his hei¬
ress on so poor a man, though nobly

born. Some comfort it gave her to find
tlieir passion of so recent a date, and
that Theodore had had but little cause
to suspect it in either . She strictly en¬
joined them to avoid all corresponden¬
ce with him. This Matilda fervently
promised: But Isabella j who flattered
herself that she meant no more than
to promote his union with her friend,
could not determine to avoid him; and
made no reply. I will go to the con¬
vent, said Hippolita and order new
masses to be said for a deliverance
from these calamities. — Oh! my mo¬
ther, said Matilda j you mean to quit
us: You mean to take sanctuary, and
to give my father an opportunity of
pursuing his fatal intention . Alas ! on
my knees I supplicate you to forbear
- will you leave me a prey to Frede¬
ric? I will follow you to the convent
* — Be at peace, my child: said Hippo*

jgo

lita : I will return instantly . I will
never abandon thee, until I know it is
the will of heaven , and for thy benefit.
Do not deceive me : said Matilda . I
will not marry Frederic until thou com-
mandest it.— — Alas! What will beco¬
me of me? Why that exclamation? said
Hippolita . I have promised thee to re¬
turn - Ah! my mother , replied Ma¬

tilda, stay and save me from myself.
A frown from thee can do more than
all my father’s severity . I have given
away my heart , and you alone can
make me recal it. No more: Said Hip¬
polita: thou must not relapse , Matil¬
da. I can quit Theodore , said she, but
must I wed another? let me attend
tliee to the altar, and shut myself from
the world for ever . Thy fate depends
on thy father; said Hippolita: I have
ill bestowed my tenderness , if it has
taught thee to revere aught beyond

him. Adieu! my child: I go to pray
for thee .

Hippolita' s real purpose was to de¬
mand of Jerome , whether in conscien¬
ce she might not consent to the divor¬
ce . She had oft urged Manfred to re¬
sign the principality , which the deli¬
cacy of her conscience rendered an
hourly burthen to her . These scruples
concurred to make the separation from
her husband appear less dreadful to
her 5 than it would have seemed in any
other situation .

Jerome j at quitting the castle over¬
night, had questioned Theodore severely
why he had accused him to Manfred
of being privy to his escape. Theodore
owned it had been with design to pre¬
vent Manfred's suspicion from alight¬
ing on Matilda ; and added 5 the holi¬
ness of Jerome's life and ch cter se¬
cured him from the tyrant’s wrath ,

Jerome was heartily grieved to disco¬
ver his son’s inclination for that Prin¬
cess; and leaving him to his rest, pro¬
mised in the morning to acquaint him
with important reasons for conquering
his passion. Theodore* like Isabella *
was too recently acquainted with pa¬
rental authority to submit to its deci¬
sions against the impulse of his heart.
He had little curiosity to learn the
Friar’s reasons , and less disposition to
obey them . The lovely Matilda had
made stronger impressions on him than
fdial affection . All night he pleased
himself with visions of love; and it
was not till late after the morning-
office, that he recollected the Friar’s
commands to attend him at Alfonso' s
tomb .

Young man, said Jerome* when he
saw him, this tardiness does not please
me. Have a father’s commands already

so

*93,

little weight? Theodore made auk- ;; : -

ward excuses ? and attributed his delay
to having overslept himself. And on
whom were thy dreams employed ?
said the Friar sternly , His son blushed.

Come 5 come, resumed the Friar in¬
considerate youth, this must not be;
eradicate this guilty passion from thy
breast - Guilty passion ! cried Theo¬

dore: Can guilt dwell with innocent
beauty and virtuous modesty ? It is
sinful, replied the Friar, to cherish
those whom heaven has doomed to de¬
struction. A tyrant’s race must be swept
from the earth to the third arid fourth
generation. Will heaven visit the in¬
nocent for the crimes of the guilty?
said Theodore . The fair Matilda has
virtues enough— To undo thee: Inter¬
rupted Jerome . Hast thou so soon for¬
gotten that twice the savage Manfred
has pronounced thy sentence? Nor

b i

have I forgotten, Sir, said Theodore,
that the charity of his daughter deli¬
vered me from his power . I can forget
injuries, but never benefits. The inju¬
ries thou hast received from Manfred's
race, said the Friar, are beyond what
thou canst conceive. — Reply not, but
view this holy image ! Beneath this
marble monument rest the ashes of the
good Alfonso ; a Prince adorned with
every virtue : The father of his people !
the delight of mankind! Kneel, head¬
strong boy, and list, while a father un¬
folds a tale of horror, that will expel
every sentiment from thy soul, but sen¬
sations of sacred vengeance — Alfonso !
much injured Prince ! let thy unsatisfied
shade sit awful on the troubled air,

while these trembling lips - ha! who

comes there? — The most wretched of
women! said Hippolita , entering the
choir. Good Father, art thou at leisu-

m

re?- - but why this kneeling youth?

what means the horror imprinted on
each countenance? why at this vene¬
rable tomb — alas ! hast thou seen aught?
We were pouring forth our orisons to
heaven , replied the Friar with some
confusion , to put an end to the woes
of this deplorable province. Join with
us, Lady! thy spotless soul may obtain
an exemption from the judgments
which the portents of these days but
too speakingly denounce against thy
house. I pray fervently to heaven to
divert them: said the pious Princess.
Thou knowest it has been the occupa¬
tion of my life to wrest a blessing for
my Lord and my harmless children — -
One alas! is taken from me! would
heaven but hear me for my poor Ma¬
tilda ! Father! intercede for her ! —
Every heart will bless her : cried Theo¬
dore with rapture— — Be dumb, rash

youth! said Jerome. And thou, fond
Princess, contend not with the Powers
above ! the Lord giveth , and the Lord
taketh away : Bless his holy name, and
submit to his decrees. I do most de¬
voutly: Said Hippolita: But will he
not spare my only comfort? must Ma¬
tilda perish too? — ah! Father, I came

- but dismiss thy son . No ear but

thine must hear what I have to utter.
May heaven grant thy every wish ,
most excellent Princess! said Theodore
retiring. Jerome frowned.

Hippolita then acquainted the Friar
with the proposal she had suggested to
Manfred j, his approbation of it, and
the tender of Matilda that he was gone
to make to Frederic. Jerome could not
conceal his dislike of the motion, which
he covered under pretence of the im¬
probability that Frederic > the nearest
of blood to Alfonso „ and who was

come to claim his succession , would
yield to an alliance with the usurper
of his right . But nothing could equal
the perplexity of the Friar , when Hip -
polita confessed her readiness not to
oppose the separation^ and demanded
his opinion on the legality of her ac¬
quiescence. The Friar catched eagerly
at her request of his advice, and without
explaining his aversion to the propo¬
sed marriage of Manfred and Isabella ,
he painted to Hippolita in the most
alarming colours the sinfulness of her
consent , denounced judgments against
her if she complied, and enjoined her
in the severest terms to treat any such
proposition with every mark of indi¬
gnation and refusal .

Manfred ^ in the mean time , had
broken his purpose to Frederic > and
proposed the double marriage. That
weak Prince ? who had been struck

with the charms of Matilda > listened
but too eagerly to the offer . He forgot
his enmity to Manfred ^ whom he saw
but little hope of dispossessing by for¬
ce; and flattering himself that no issue
might succeed from the union of his
daughter with the Tyrant , he looked
upon his own succession to the princi¬
pality as facilitated by wedding Ma¬
tilda . He made faint opposition to the
proposal; affecting., for form only , not
to acquiesce unless Hippolita should
consent to the divorce. Manfred took
that upon himself. Transported with
his success , and impatient to see himself
in a situation to expect sons, he hasten¬
ed to his wife’s apartment, determin¬
ed to extort her compliance. He learn¬
ed with indignation that she was ab¬
sent at the convent . His guilt suggest¬
ed to him that she had probably been
informed by Isabella of his purpose .

199

He doubted whether her retirement to
the convent did not import an inten¬
tion of remaining there, until she could
raise obstacles to their divorce; and
the suspicions he had already enterta¬
ined of Jerome > made him apprehend
that the Friar would not only traverse
his views , but might have inspired
Hippolita with the resolution of taking
sanctuary . Impatient to unravel this
clue, and to defeat its success, Man¬
fred hastened to the convent , and ar¬
rived there, as the Friar was earnestly
exhorting the Princess never to yield
to the divorce.

Madam, said Manfred ^ what busi¬
ness drew you hither ? why did you
not await my return from the Marquis?
I came to implore a blessing on your
councils: Replied Hippolita . My coun¬
cils do not need a Friar’s intervention:
Said Manfred— and of all men living

200

’-7f-

j,A

is that hoary traitor the only one whom
you delight to confer with . Profane
Prince! said Jerome ; is it at the altar
that thou chusest to insult the servants
of the altar? — but, Manfred j thy im¬
pious schemes are known. Heaven and
this virtuous Lady know them- — nay,
frown not , Prince. The church despises
thy menaces . Her thunders will be
heard above thy wrath . Dare to pro¬
ceed in thy curst purpose of a divor¬
ce , until her sentence be known, and
here I lance her Anathema at thy head.
Audacious rebel! said Manfred j endea¬
vouring to conceal the awe with which
the Friar’s words inspired him; Dost
thou presume to threaten thy lawful
Prince? Thou art no lawful Prince;
said Jerome; thou art no Prince — go,
discuss thy claim with Frederic ; and
when that is done— It is done: Re¬
plied Manfred: Frederic accepts Ma~

SLOT

ti Ida's hand , and is content to wave
his claim, unless I have no male issue
— as he spoke those words three drops
of blood fell from the nose of Alfonso's
statue. Manfred turned pale, and the
Princess sunk on her knees . Behold !
said the Friar; mark this miraculous
indication that the blood of Alfonso
will never mix with that of Man¬
fred! My gracious Lord, said Hip-
polita > let us submit ourselves to
heaven. Think not thy ever obedient
wife rebels against thy authority . I
have no will but that of my Lord and
the church . To that revered tribunal
let us appeal . It does not depend on
us to burst the bonds that unite us . If
the church shall approve the dissolu¬
tion of our marriage, be it so — I have
but few years , and those of sorrow to
pass . Where can they be worn away
so well as at the foot of this altar, in

c c

202

prayers for thine and Matildas safety?
— But thou shalt not remain here until
then: Said Manfred. Repair with me
to the castle, and there I will advise
on the proper measures for a divorce;

- - but this meddling Friar comes not

thither : My hospitable roof shall ne¬
ver more harbour a traitor — and for
thy Reverence’s offspring, continued
he, I banish him from my dominions.
He, I ween, is no sacred personage,
nor under the protection of the church .
Whoever weds Isabella > it shall not
be Father Falconara' s started- — up
son. They start up, said the Friar,
who are suddenly beheld in the seat
of lawful Princes; but they wither
away like the grass, and their place
knows them no more . Manfred casting
a look of scorn at the Friar, led Hip-
polita forth; but at the door of the
church, whispered one of his atten-

clants to remain concealed about the
convent, and bring him instant noti¬
ce , if any one from the castle should
repair thither .

CHAPTER V.

Every reflection which Manfred made
on the Friar’s behaviour , conspired to
persuade him that Jerome was privy
to an amour between Isabella and
Theodore. But Jerome's new presump¬
tion 5 so dissonant from his former meek¬
ness, suggested still deeper apprehen¬
sions. The Prince even suspected that
the Friar depended on some secret
support from Frederic ^ whose arrival
coinciding with the novel appearance
of Theodore ^ seemed to bespeak a cor¬
respondence . Still more was he troub¬
led with the resemblance of Theodore
to Alfonso's portrait . The latter he
knew had unquestionably died without

.205

issue. Frederic had consented to bes¬
tow Isabella on him . These contradic¬
tions agitated his mind with number¬
less pangs . He saw but two methods
of extricating himself from his difficul¬
ties . The one was to resign his domi¬
nions to the Marquis- — Pride, ambi¬
tion 5 and his reliance on ancient pro¬
phecies ? which had pointed out a pos¬
sibility of his preserving them to his
posterity, combated that thought. The
other was to press his marriage with
Isabella . After long ruminating on
these anxious thoughts, as he marched
silently with Hippolita to the castle ,
he at last discoursed with that Princess
on the subject of his disquiet, and used
every insinuating and plausible argu¬
ment to extract her consent to , even
her promise of promoting the divorce .
Hippolita needed little persuasions to
bend her to his pleasure . She endea-

zc6

voured to win him over to the measu¬
re of resigning his dominions; but find¬
ing her exhortations fruitless , she as¬
sured him 5 that as far as her conscien¬
ce would allow 5 she would raise no
opposition to a separation , though
without better founded scruples than
what he yet alledged, she would not
engage to be active in demanding it.

This compliance, though inadequa¬
te , was sufficient to raise Manfred' s
hopes . He trusted that his power and
wealth would easily advance his suit at
the court of Rome > whither he resolv¬
ed to engage Frederic to take a jour¬
ney on purpose. That Prince had dis¬
covered so much passion for Matilda >
that Manfred hoped to obtain all he
wished by holding out or withdrawing
his daughter’s charms, according as the
Marquis should appear more or less
disposed to co-operate in his views .

Even the absence of Frederic would be
a material point gained , until he could
take farther measures for his security.

Dismissing Hippolita to her apart¬
ment 5 he repaired to that of the Mar¬
quis; but crossing the great hall through
which he was to pass, he met Bianca .
The damsel he knew was in the confi¬
dence of both the young Ladies . It
immediately occurred to him to sift her
on the subject of Isabella and Theodo¬
re . Calling her aside into the recess of
the oriel window of the hall, and sooth¬
ing her with many fair words and pro¬
mises, he demanded of her whether
she knew ought of the state of Isabel¬
la's affections. I! my Lord! no, my
Lord — -yes 5 my Lord — poor Lady!
she is wonderfully alarmed about her
father’s wounds ; but I tell her he will
do well, don’t your Highness think so?
I do not ask you, replied Manfred ,

what slie thinks about her father: But
you are in her secrets : Come , be a
good girl and tell me; is there any
young man— ha!* — you understand me

* - Lord bless me ! understand your

Highness 5 no, not I: I told her a few
vulnerary herbs and repose— I am not
talking , replied the Prince impatient¬
ly , about her father : I know he will
do well — Bless me , I rejoice to hear your
Highness say so; for though I thought
it not right to let my young Lady des¬
pond, methought his Greatness had a
wan look, and a something — I remem¬
ber when young Ferdinand was woun¬
ded by the Venetian - Thou answer-

est from the point , interrupted Man¬
fred; but here, take this jewel, perhaps

that may fix thy attention - nay, no

reverences; my favour shall not stop
here — -come, tell me truly; how stands
Isabella' s heart. Well! your Highness

.2 09

has such a way! said Bianca - to be

sure - but can your Highness keep a

secret? if it should ever come out of

your lips- - It shall not, it shall not:

Cried Manfred— — Nay, but swear,
your Highness— by my halidame, if it
should ever be known that I said it—
why, truth is truth, I do not think my
Lady Isabella ever much affectioned my

young Lord your Son- - -yet he was a

sweet youth as one should see— I am

sure, if I had been a Princess- - but

bless me! I must attend my Lady Ma¬
tilda ; she will marvel what is become
of me — Stay; cried Manfred ; thou hast
not satisfied my question . Hast thou
ever carried any message, any letter —
I! good gracious! cried Bianca ; I carry
a letter? I would not to be a Queen. I
hope your Highness thinks, though I

am poor, I am honest - did your

Highness never hear what Count Mar -

d d

suo

sigli offered me, when he came a woo¬
ing to my Lady Matilda ? I have not
leisure 5 said Manfred j to listen to thy
tales. I do not question thy honesty :
But it is thy duty to conceal nothing
from me. How long has Isabella been
acquainted with Theodore? Nay, there
is nothing can escape your Highness !

said Bianca - - not that I know any

thing of the matter — Theodore „ to be
sure ? is a proper young man, and, as
my Lady Matilda says, the very image
of good Alfonso: Has not your Highness

remarked it? Yes, yes, - no- - thou

torturest me : Said Manfred: Where

did they meet? when? - Who! My

Lady Matilda? said Bianca. No, no,
not Matilda: Isabella ; when did Isa¬
bella first become acquainted with this
Theodore? Virgin Mary ! said Bianca >
how should I know ? Thou dost know ;
said Manfred ; and I must know; I

.2JJ^

will— — Lord! your Highness is not jea¬
lous of young Theodore ! said Bianca

- Jealous! no5 no: Why should I be

jealous? - perhaps I mean to unite

them- — -if I were sure Isabella would
have no repugnance — Repugnance !
no, I’ll warrant her; said Bianca: he
is as comely a youth as ever trod on
Christian ground. We are all in love
with him ; there is not a soul in the
castle 5 but would be rejoiced to have
him for our Prince— I mean, when it
shall please heaven to call your Highness
to itself— Indeed! said Manfred ^ has
it gone so far! oh! this cursed Friar!
—but I must not lose time— go Bian¬
ca j attend Isabella; but I charge thee5
not a word of what has passed. Find
out how she is affected towards Theo¬
dore : bring me good news 5 and that
ring has a companion. Wait at the foot
of the winding staircase : I am going

to visit the Marquis , and will talk far-
tlier with thee at my return .

Manfred j, after some general con¬
versation, desired Frederic to dismiss
the two Knights his companions, hav¬
ing to talk with him on urgent affairs .
As soon as they were alone, he began
in artful guise to sound the Marquis
on the subject of Matilda > and finding
him disposed to his wish , he let drop
hints on the difficulties that would at¬
tend the celebration of their marriage ,

unless - at that instant Bianca burst

into the room with a wildness in her
look and gestures that spoke the utmost
terror. Oh! my Lord, my Lord! cried
she; we are all undone! it is come
again! it is come again! What is come
again! cried Manfred amazed! — -Oh!
the hand! the Giant! the hand! — sup¬
port me! I am terrified out of my sen¬
ses: Cried Bianca > I will not sleep in

the castle to-night; where shall I go?
my things may come after me to-mor¬
row - would I had been content to

wed Francesco ! this comes of ambition!
What has terrified thee thus, young
woman? said the Marquis: Thou art
safe here; be not alarmed. Oh! your
Greatness is wonderfully good, said
Bianca j but I dare not- — no, pray, let
me go — I had rather leave every thing
behind me, than stay another hour un¬
der this roof. Go to, thou hast lost
thy senses: Said Manfred. Interrupt
us not; we were communing on impor¬
tant matters — my Lord, this wench is

subject to fits- - come with me, Bian~

ca — -Oh! the Saints! no, said Bianca

- -for certain it comes to warn your

Highness; why should it appear to me
else? I say my prayers morning and
evening — — oh! if your Highness had
believed Diego! ’Tis the same hand

that he saw the foot to in the gallery-

chamber - -Father Jerome has often

told us the prophecy would be out one
of these days — Bianca j said he, mark
my words- — —Thou ravest; said Man¬
fred in a rage; be gone, and keep these
fooleries to frighten thy companions - —
What! my Lord, cried Bianca > do you
think I have seen nothing? go to the

foot of the great stairs yourself - as I

live I saw it. Saw what? tell us, fair
maid, what thou hast seen: Said Fre¬
deric. Can your Highness listen, said
Manfredj to the delirium of a silly
wench, who has heard stories of appa¬
ritions until she believes them? This
is more than fancy, said the Marquis;
her terror is too natural and too strong¬
ly impressed to be the work of imagi¬
nation. Tell us, fair maiden, what it
is has moved thee thus. Yes, my Lord,
thank your Greatness; said Bianca — -

2/5

I believe I look very pale; I shall be
better when I have recovered myself

- 1 was going to my Lady Isabella? s

chamber by his Highness’s order— We
do not want the circumstances ; inter¬
rupted Manfred: Since his Highness
will have it so, proceed; but be brief.
Lord! your Highness thwarts one so!
replied Bianca— 1 fear my hair- — 1
am sure I never in my life- — well! as
I was telling your Greatness 5 I was
going by his Highness’s order to my
Lady Isabella's chamber: She lies in
the watchet-coloured chamber , on the
right hand, one pair of stairs: So when
I came to the great stairs — I was look-
ing on his Highness’s present here—
Grant me patience! said Manfred > will
this wench never come to the point ?
what imports it to the Marquis , that I
gave thee a bawble for thy faithful at¬
tendance on my daughter? we want

to know what thou sawest. I was going
to tell your Highness said Bianca > if

you would permit me. - So as I was

rubbing the ring — I am sure I had not
gone up three steps , but I heard the
rattling of armour; for all the world
such a clatter , as Diego says he heard
when the Giant turned him about in
the gallery-chamber — What does she
mean, my Lord! said the Marquis; is
your castle haunted by giants and gob¬
lins? Lord, what, has not your Great¬
ness heard the story of the Giant in
the gallery-chamber? cried Bianca. I
marvel his Highness has not told you
— mayhap you do not know there is a
prophecy — This trifling is intolerable ;
interrupted Manfred. Let us dismiss
this silly wench, my Lord? we have
more important affairs to discuss . By
your favour, said Frederic j, these are
no trifles: The enormous sabre I was

directed to in the wood , yon casque ,

its fellow - - are these visions of this

poor maiden’s brain ? - - So Jaquez

thinks 5 may it please your Greatness :
Said Bianca. He says this moon will
not be out without our seeing some
strange revolution. For my part I
should not be surprized if it was to
happen to-morrow; for, as I was say¬
ing, when I heard the clattering of ar¬
mour, I was all in a cold sweat- - 1

looked up, and, if your Greatness will
believe me, I saw upon the uppermost
banister of the great stairs a hand in

armour as big, as big - -I thought I

should have swooned- — -I never stop¬
ped until I came hither —would I we¬
re well out of this castle! My Lady
Matilda told me but yestermorning
that her Highness Hippolita knows
something — Thou art an insolent! cried
Manfred — Lord Marquis, it much mis-

su8

gives me that this scene is concerted
to affront me. Are my own domestics
suborned to spread tales injurious to
my honour ? Pursue your claim by
manly daring; or let us bury our feuds ,
as was proposed ? by the intermarriage
of our children : But trust me , it ill
becomes a Prince of your bearing to
practise on mercenary wenches - — I
scorn your imputation; said Frederic:
until this hour I never set eyes on this
damsel: I have given her no jewel ! —
my Lord, my Lord, your conscience,
your guilt accuses you , and would
throw the suspicion on me — but keep
your daughter , and think no more of
Isabella: The judgments already fal¬
len on your house forbid me matching
into it.

Manfred alarmed at the resolute
tone in which Frederic delivered these
words , endeavoured to pacify him .

Dismissing Bianca , he made such sub¬
missions to the Marquis, and threw in
such artful encomiums on Matilda >
that Frederic was once more staggered.
However, as his passion was of so re¬
cent a date, it could not at once sur¬
mount the scruples he had conceived .
He had gathered enough from Bianca s
discourse to persuade him that heaven
declared itself against Manfred . The
proposed marriages too removed his
claim to a distance; and the principa¬
lity of Otranto was a stronger temp¬
tation, than the contingent reversion
of it with Matilda . Still he would
not absolutely recede from his engage¬
ments; but purposing to gain time, he
demanded of Manfred if it was true in
fact that Hippolita consented to the
divorce . The Prince , transported to
find no other obstacle, and depending
on his influence over his wife, assured

220

the Marquis it was so, and that he
might satisfy himself of the truth from
her own mouth .

As they were thus discoursing, word
was brought that the banquet was pre¬
pared . Manfred conducted Frederic to
the great hall, where they were re¬
ceived by Hippolita and the young
Princesses. Manfred placed the Mar¬
quis next to Matilda , and seated himself
between his wife and Isabella . Hip -
polita comported herself with an easy
gravity ; but the young Ladies were
silent and melancholy. Manfred ^ who
was determined to pursue his point
with the Marquis in the remainder of
the evening, pushed on the feast until
it waxed late; affecting unrestrained
gaiety, and plying Frederic with re¬
peated goblets of wine. The latter,
more upon his guard than Manfred
wished, declined his frequent challen-

2J2/

ges, on pretence of his late loss of
blood; while the Prince, to raise his
own disordered spirits, and to coun¬
terfeit unconcern , indulged himself in
plentiful draughts, though not to the
intoxication of his senses .

The evening being far advanced,
the banquet concluded . Manfred would
have withdrawn with Frederic ; but
the latter pleading weakness and want
of repose, retired to his chamber, gal¬
lantly telling the Prince , that his
daughter should amuse his Highness
until himself could attend him. Man¬
fred accepted the party, and to the no
small grief of Isabella accompanied her
to her apartment. Matilda waited on
her mother to enjoy the freshness of
the evening on the ramparts of the
castle .

Soon as the company were dispers¬
ed their several ways, Frederic? quit-

ting his chamber , enquired if Hippoli -
ta was alone , and was told by one of
her attendants, who had not noticed
her going forth, that at that hour she
generally withdrew to her oratory,
where he probably would find her .
The Marquis during the repast had
beheld Matilda with increase of pas¬
sion. He now wished to find Hippoli -
ta in the disposition her Lord had pro¬
mised . The portents that had alarmed
him , were forgotten in his desires .
Stealing softly and unobserved to the
apartment of Hippolita > he entered it
with a resolution to encourage her ac¬
quiescence to the divorce, having per¬
ceived that Manfred was resolved to
make the possession of Isabella an un¬
alterable condition, before he would
grant Matilda to his wishes .

The Marquis was not surprized at
the silence that reigned in the Prin-

cess’s apartment. Concluding her, as
he had been advertized, in her oratory,
he passed on. The door was ajar; the
evening gloomy and overcast . Pushing
open the door gently, he saw a person
kneeling before the altar. As he ap¬
proached nearer , it seemed not a wo¬
man, but one in a long woollen weed,
whose back was towards him . The
person seemed absorbed in prayer. The
Marquis was about to return, when
the figure rising, stood some moments
fixed in meditation , without regarding
him. The Marquis, expecting the holy
person to come forth, and meaning to
excuse his uncivil interruption , said ,
Reverend Father, I sought the Lady
Hippolita Hippolita ! replied a hol¬
low voice : earnest thou to this castle
to seek Hippolita? — and then the figu¬
re, turning slowly round, discovered
to Frederic the fleshless jaws and empty

sockets of a skeleton, wrapt in a her¬
mit’s cowl. Angels of grace , protect
me! cried Frederic recoiling. Deserve
their protection! said the Spectre. Fre¬
deric falling on his knees , adjured the
Phantom to take pity on him. Dost
thou not remember me? said the appa¬
rition . Remember the wood of Joppa!
Art thou that holy Hermit? cried Fre¬
deric trembling- - can I do ought for

thy eternal peace ? - Wast thou deli¬

vered from bondage , said the spectre ,
to pursue carnal delights ? Hast thou
forgotten the buried sabre , and the be¬
hest of Heaven engraven on it?- - 1

have not, I have not; said Frederic — -
but say, blest spirit, what is thy er¬
rand to me? what remains to be done?
To forget Matilda! said the apparition
—and vanished .

Frederics blood froze in his veins .
For some minutes he remained motion-

225

less. Then falling prostrate on his face
before the altar , he besought the in¬
tercession of every saint for pardon.
A flood of tears succeeded to this trans¬
port; and the image of the beauteous
Matilda rushing in spite of him on
his thoughts, he lay on the ground
in a conflict of penitence and passion.
Ere he could recover from this agony
of his spirits, the Princess Hippolita
with a taper in her hand entered the
oratory alone. Seeing a man without
motion on the floor , she gave a shriek ,
concluding him dead . Her fright
brought Frederic to himself. Rising
suddenly , his face bedewed with tears,
he would have rushed from her pre¬
sence ; but Hippolita stopping him ,
conjured him in the most plaintive ac¬
cents to explain the cause of his disor¬
der, and by what strange chance she

had found him there in that posture.

//

Ah! virtuous Princess! said the Mar¬
quis, penetrated with grief- — and stop¬
ped. For the love of Heaven, my Lord,
said Hippolita j, disclose the cause of
this transport! what mean these dole¬
ful sounds , this alarming exclamation
on my name? What woes has heaven
still in store for the wretched Hippo-
lita? — yet silent!- — by every pitying
angel, I adjure thee, noble Prince, con¬
tinued she, falling at his feet, to dis¬
close the purport of what lies at thy
heart — I see thou feelest for me; thou
feelest the sharp pangs that thou infli-

ctest - speak for pity! - does ought

thou knowest concern my child ? - ■

I cannot speak: cried Frederic , burst¬
ing from her — Oh! Matilda !

Quitting the Princess thus abrupt¬
ly, he hastened to his own apartment.
At the door of it he was accosted by
Manfred j who flushed by wine and

love had come to seek him , and to pro¬
pose to waste some hours of the night
in music and revelling. Frederic ^ of¬
fended at an invitation so dissonant
from the mood of his soul, pushed him
rudely aside , and entering his cham¬
ber 5 flung the door intemperately aga¬
inst Manfred j and bolted it inwards.
The haughty Prince, enraged at this
unaccountable behaviour , withdrew
in a frame of mind capable of the most
fatal excesses. As he crossed the court,
he was met by the domestic whom he
had planted at the convent as a spy on
Jerome and Theodore. This man, al¬
most breathless with the haste he had
made, informed his Lord, that Theo¬
dore and some Lady from the castle
were at that instant in private confe¬
rence at the tomb of Alfonso in St. Ni¬
cholas’s church. He had dogged Theo¬
dore thither, but the gloominess of the

2,28

night had prevented his discovering
who the woman was .

M an f red > whose spirits were infla¬
med, and whom Isabella had driven
from her on his urging his passion with
too little reserve , did not doubt but
the inquietude she had expressed, had
been occasioned by her impatience to
meet Theodore. Provoked by this con¬
jecture, and enraged at her father, he
hastened secretly to the great church .
Gliding softly between the isles, and
guided by an imperfect gleam of moon¬
shine that shone faintly through the il¬
luminated windows, he stole towards
the tomb of Alfonso > to which he was
directed by indistinct whispers of the
persons he sought . The first sounds he
could distinguish were — Does it alas!
depend on me ? Manfred will never
permit our union — No, this shall pre¬
vent it! cried the tyrant, drawing his

dagger 5 and plunging it over her shoul¬
der into the bosom of the person that
spoke— Ah! me ? I am slain! cried Ma~-
tilda sinking: good heaven , receive my
soul! Savage , inhuman monster! what
hast thou done! cried Theodore > rushing
on him , and wrenching his dagger from

him - St op 5 stop thy impious hand!

cried Matilda; it is my father! Man~
fred waking as from a trance , beat his
breast , twisted his hands in his locks,
and endeavoured to recover his dag¬
ger from Theodore to dispatch himself.
Theodore scarce less distracted , and
only mastering the transports of his
grief to assist Matilda > had now by his
cries drawn some of the monks to his
aid. While part of them endeavoured
in concert with the afflicted Theodore
to stop the blood of the dying Princess,
the rest prevented Manfred from lay¬
ing violent hands on himself.

230

Matilda resigning herself patiently
to her fate , acknowledged with looks
of grateful love the zeal of Theodore .
Yet oft as her faintness would permit
her speech its way, she begged the as¬
sistants to comfort her father. Jerome
by this time had learnt the fatal news,
and reached the church. His looks
seemed to reproach Theodore : but turn¬
ing to Manfred, he said, Now, tyrant!
behold the completion of woe fulfilled
on thy impious and devoted head !
The blood of Alfonso cried to heaven
for vengeance ; and heaven has permit¬
ted its altar to be polluted by assassi¬
nation , that thou mightest shed thy
own blood at the foot of that Prince’s
sepulchre! - Cruel man! cried Ma¬

tilda, to aggravate the woes of a pa¬
rent! may heaven bless my father, and
forgive him as I do! My Lord, my gra¬
cious Sire, dost thou forgive thy child?

Indeed I came not hither to meet Theo¬
dore ! I found him praying at this tomb,
whither my mother sent me to interce¬
de for thee, for her— — dearest father,
bless your child, and say you forgive
her - Forgive thee! murderous mon¬
ster ! cried Manfred - can assassins

forgive? I took thee for Isabella; but
heaven directed my bloody hand to

the heart of my child - oh! Matilda

— I cannot utter it — canst thou forgi¬
ve the blindness of my rage! I can, I
do! and may heaven confirm it! said

Matilda - but while I have life to

ask it - Oh! my mother! what will

she feel!— — will you comfort her, my
Lord! will you not put her away? in¬
deed she loves you - oh! I am faint!

bear me to the castle — —can I live to
have her close my eyes?

Theodore and the monks besought
her earnestly to suffer herself to be

borne into the convent; but her instan¬
ces were so pressing to be carried to
the castle ? that placing her on a litter,
they conveyed her thither as she re¬
quested. Theodore supporting her head
with his arm 5 and hanging over her in
an agony of despairing love, still en¬
deavoured to inspire her with hopes
of life . Jerome on the other side com¬
forted her with discourses of heaven,
and holding a crucifix before her ,
which she bathed with innocent tears,
prepared her for her passage to immor¬
tality. Manfred > plunged in the dee¬
pest affliction , followed the litter in
despair .

Ere they reached the castle. Hip -
politaj, informed of the dreadful cata¬
strophe, had flown to meet her mur¬
dered child : but when she saw the af¬
flicted procession, the mightiness of her
grief deprived her of her senses, and

255

she fell life-less to the earth in a swoon.
Isabella and Frederic , who attended
her 5 were overwhelmed in almost equal
sorrow. Matilda alone seemed insensi¬
ble to her own situation : every thought
was lost in tenderness for her mother.
Ordering the litter to stop, as soon as
Hippolita was brought to herself, she
asked for her father. He approached,
unable to speak. Matilda, seizing his
hand and her mother’s , locked them
in her own, and then clasped them to
her heart . Manfred could not support
this act of pathetic piety . He dashed
himself on the ground, and cursed the
day he was born. Isabella, apprehen¬
sive that these struggles of passion were
more than Matilda could support , took
upon herself to order Manfred to be
borne to his apartment, while she caus¬
ed Matilda to be conveyed to the nea¬
rest chamber. Hippolita, scarce more

8 S

Z54

alive than her daughter, was regardless
of every thing but her: but when the
tender Isabella's care would have
likewise removed her, while the sur¬
geons examined Matilda's wound, she
cried , Remove me ! never ! never ! I
lived but in her, and will expire with
her. Matilda raised her eyes at her
mother’s voice, but closed them again
without speaking . Her sinking pulse
and the damp coldness of her hand soon
dispelled all hopes of recovery . Theo¬
dore followed the surgeons into the
outer chamber, and heard them pro¬
nounce the fatal sentence with a trans¬
port equal to frenzy - Since she can¬

not live mine, cried he, at least she
shall be mine in death! - Father! Je¬

rome l will you not join our hands?
cried he to the Friar, who with the
Marquis had accompanied the surgeons .
What means thy distracted rashness?

said Jerome ; is this an hour for mar¬
riage? It is, it is, cried Theodore j alas!
there is no other! Young man, thou
art too unadvised; said Frederic: Dost
thou think we are to listen to thy fond
transports in this hour of fate? what
pretensions hast thou to* the Princess ?
Those of a Prince; said Theodore ; of
the sovereign of Otranto . This rever¬
end man, my father, has informed me
who I am. Thou ravest; said the Mar¬
quis: there is no Prince of Otranto but
myself, now Manfred by murder, by
sacrilegious murder, has forfeited all
pretensions . My Lord , said Jerome >
assuming an air of command , he tells
you true . It was not my purpose the
secret should have been divulged so
soon; but fate presses onward to its
work. What his hot-headed passion has
revealed, my tongue confirms. Know,
Prince , that when Alfonso set sail for

2,36

the Holy Land- - Is this a season for

explanations? cried Theodore. Father,
come and unite me to the Princess ;
she shall be mine— — in every other
thing I will dutifully obey you . My
life! my adored Matilda! continued
Theodore j rushing back into the inner
chamber, will you not be mine? will

you not bless your - Isabella made

signs to him to be silent, apprehending
the Princess was near her end . What
is she dead? cried Theodore; is it pos¬
sible! The violence of his exclamations
brought Matilda to herself. Lifting up
her eyes, she looked round for her mo¬
ther- - Life of my soul! I am here:

cried Hippolita ; think not I will quit
thee ! Oh ! you are too good ; said

Matilda - but weep not for me, my

mother! I am going where sorrow ne¬
ver dwells — Isabella j, thou hast loved
me; wot thou not supply my fondness

to this dear, dear woman? - indeed I

am faint! Oh! my child! my child! said
Hippolita in a flood of tears, can I not

withhold thee a moment? - It will

not be; said Matilda — — commend me
to heaven - where is my father? for¬
give him , dearest mother - forgive

him my death; it was an error- - Oh!

I had forgotten— dearest mother, I
vowed never to see Theodore more —
perhaps that has drawn down this ca¬
lamity — but it was not intentional — -
can you pardon me?— — Oh! wound
not my agonizing soul ! said Hippolita ;
thou never couldst offend me- — -alas!

she faints! help! help! - 1 would say

something more, said Matilda struggl¬
ing, but it wonnot be - - Isabella -

Theodore — for my sake — —Oh! — -she
expired. Isabella and her women tore
Hippolita from the corse; but Theodo¬
re threatened destruction to all who

2,38

attempted to remove him from it. *He
printed a thousand kisses on her clay ~

cold hands, and uttered every expres¬
sion that despairing love could dictate .

Isabella j, in the mean time, was
accompanying the afflicted Hippolita
to her apartment; but, in the middle
of the court, they were met by Man¬
fred > who , distracted with his own
thoughts , and anxious once more to
behold his daughter, was advancing
to the chamber where she lay. As the
moon was now at its height, he read
in the countenances, of this unhappy
company the event he dreaded. What!
is she dead! cried he in wild confusion

- - a clap of thunder at that instant

shook the castle to its foundations ;
ihe earth rocked , and the clank of
more than mortal armour was heard
behind. Frederic and Jerome thought
the last day was at hand. The latter,

%39

forcing Theodore along with them ,
rushed into the court. The moment
Theodore appeared, the walls of the
castle behind Manfred were thrown
down with a mighty force, and the
form of Alfonso j, dilated to an immen¬
se magnitude, appeared in the center
of the ruins . Behold in Theodore the
true heir of Alfonso! said the vision:
And having pronounced those words ,
accompanied by a clap of thunder , it
ascended solemnly towards heaven,
where the clouds parting asunder ,
the form of St. Nicholas was seen, and
receiving Alfonso's shade, they were
soon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze
of glory .

The beholders fell prostrate on their
faces , acknowledging the divine will .
The first that broke silence was IIip~
polita . My Lord , said she to the des¬
ponding Manfred^ behold the vanity

of human greatness! Conrad is gone!
Matilda is no more ! in Theodore we
view the true Prince of Otranto . By
'What miracle he is so, I know not- — —
suffice it to us 5 our doom is pronoun¬
ced! shall we not , can we but dedica¬
te the few deplorable hours we have
to live, in deprecating the farther wrath
of heaven? heaven ejects us* — whither
can we fly, but to yon holy cells that
yet offer us a retreat?— -Thou guiltless
but unhappy woman ! unhappy by my
crimes! replied Manfred j my heart at
last is open to thy devout admonitions.
Oh! could — but it cannot be — ye are
lost in wonder- — let me at last do jus¬
tice on myself! To heap shame on my
own head is all the satisfaction I have
left to offer to offended heaven. My
story has drawn down these judgments:
Let my confession atone' — but ah! what
can atone for usurpation and a murde-

red child! a child murdered in a con¬
secrated place! - List, Sirs, and may

this bloody record be a warning to fu¬
ture tyrants !

Alfonso j, ye all know, died in the

holy land - ye would interrupt me;

ye would say he came not fairly to

his end - it is most true - why else

this bitter cup which Manfred must
drink to the dregs? Ricardo , my grand¬
father, was his chamberlain — I would
draw a veil over my ancestor’s crimes
— -but it is in vain! Alfonso died by
poison. A fictitious will declared i?i-
cardo his heir. His crimes pursued
him - yet he lost no Conrad > no Ma¬

tilda! I pay the price of usurpation
for all! A storm overtook him. Haunt¬
ed by his guilt he vowed to St. Nicho¬
las to found a church and two convents,
if he lived to reach Otranto. The sa¬
crifice was accepted : the saint appear-

ed to him in a dream , and promised
that Ricardo's posterity should reign
in Otranto > until the rightful owner
should be grown too large to inhabit
the castle, and as long as issue-male
from Ricardo's loins should remain to

enjoy it - Alas! alas! nor male nor

female, except myself, remains of all
his wretched race! — I have done — the
woes of these three days speak the
rest . How this young man can be AR
fonso's heir, I know not — yet I do not
doubt it. His are these dominions; I
resign them — yet I knew not Alfonso

had an heir - 1 question not the will

of heaven — poverty and prayer must
fill up the woeful space , until Man¬
fred shall be summoned to Ricardo .

What remains, is my part to decla¬
re, said Jerome. When Alfonso set sail
for the holy land, he was driven by a
storm to the coast of Sicily . The other

vessel, which bore Ricardo and his
train, as your Lordship must have
heard, was separated from him. It is
most true, said Manfred ; and the title
you give me is more than an outcast

can claim - well! be it so — proceed.

Jerome blushed, and continued. For
three months Lord Alfonso was wind
— bound in Sicily . There he became
enamoured of a fair virgin named Vic¬
toria . He was too pious to tempt her
to forbidden pleasures . They were
married. Yet deeming this amour in¬
congruous with the holy vow of arms
by which he was bound, he determin¬
ed to conceal their nuptials, until his
return from the Crusado , when he
purposed to seek and acknowledge her
for his lawful wife. He left her pre¬
gnant. During his absence she was
delivered of a daughter: But scarce
had she felt a mother’s pangs , ere she

heard the fatal rumour of her Lord’s
death, and the succession of Ricardo.
What could a friendless, helpless wo¬
man do? would her testimony avail?
— yet, my Lord , I have an authentic
writing — It needs not; said Manfred;
the horrors of these days, the vision
we have but now seen, all corroborate
thy evidence beyond a thousand parch¬
ments . Matilda's death and my ex¬
pulsion — Be composed , my Lord , said
Hippolita; this holy man did not mean
to recal your griefs. Jerome proceeded .

I shall not dwell on what is need¬
less. The daughter of which Victoria
was delivered , was at her maturity
bestowed in marriage on me . Victoria
died; and the secret remained locked
in my breast . Theodore's narrative
has told the rest .

The Friar ceased . The disconsola¬
te company retired to the remaining

2-45

part of the castle. In the morning Man¬
fred signed his abdication of the prin¬
cipality 5 with the approbation of Hip -
politci; and each took on them the ha¬
bit of religion in the neighbouring con¬
vents. Frederic offered his daughter
to the new Prince, which Hippolita’ s
tenderness for Isabella concurred to
promote : But Theodore? s grief was too
fresh to admit the thought of another
love; and it was not until after fre¬
quent discourses with Isabella of his
dear Matilda > that he was persuaded
he could know no happiness but in the
society of one with whom he could for
ever indulge the melancholy that had
taken possession of his soul .

FINIS .

C-

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